UC-NRLF 


SEVENOAKS 

A    STORY   OF    TO-DAY 


SEVENOAKS 


A    STORY    OF    TO-DAY 


J.  G.  HOLLAND 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS, 
1917 


COPYRIGHT  1875, 

BY 
SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Which  tells  about  Sevenoaks,  and  how  Miss  Butterworth  passed  one  of 
her  evenings... 


CHAPTER  II. 

Mr.  Belcher  carries  his  point  at  the  town-meeting,  and  the  poor  are  knocked 
down  to  Thomas  Buffum,. ............. ....................... .....................     21 


CHAPTER  III. 

In  which  Jim  Fenton  is  introduced  to  the  reader  and  introduces  himself  to 
Miss  Butterworth ........ 34 

CHAPTER  IV. 

In  which  Jim  Fenton  applies  for  lodgings  at  Tom  Buffum's  boarding- 
house,  and  finds  his  old  friend _.. 43 

CHAPTER  V. 
In  which  Jim  enlarges  his  accommodations  and  adopts  a  violent  method 

of  securing  boarders........ 63 


CHAPTER  VI. 

In  which  Sevenoaks  experiences  a  great  commotion,  and  comes  to  the 
conclusion  that  Benedict  has  met  with  foul  play 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  which  Jim  and  Mike  Conlin  pass  through  a  great  trial  and  come  out 
victorious ..,.       ..., 8l 

405464 


vi  Contents. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  which  Mr.  Belcher  visits  New  York,  and  becomes  the  Proprietor  of 
"  Palgrave's  Folly." 99 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Mrs.  Talbot  gives  her  little   dinner  party,  and   Mr.  Belcher  makes  an 

exceedingly  pleasant  acquaintance 114 

CHAPTER  X. 

Which  tells  how  a  lawyer  spent  his  vacation  in  camp,  and  took  home  a 
specimen  of  game  that  he  had  never  before  found  in  the  woods isa 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Which  records  Mr.  Belcher's  connection  with  a  great  speculation  and 
brings  to  a  close  his  residence  in  Sevenoaks 139 

CHAPTER  XII. 

In  which  Jim  enlarges  his  plans  for  a  house,  and  completes  his  plans  for 
a  house-keeper 156 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Which  introduces  several  residents  of  Sevenoaks  to  the  Metropolis  and 
a  new  character  to  the  reader 171 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Which  tells  of  a  great  public  meeting  in  Sevenoaks,  the  burning  in  effigy 
of  Mr.  Belcher,  and  that  gentleman's  interview  with  a  reporter 193 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Which  tells  about  Mrs.  Dillingham's  Christmas  and  the  New  Year's  Re 
ception  at  the  Palgravp  Mansion 208 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Which  gives  an  account  of  a  voluntary  and  an  involuntary  visit  of  Sam 
Yates  to  Number  Nine... .,„ 223 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

In  which  Jim  constructs  two  happy-Davids-  raises  his  hotel,  and  dismisses 
Sam  Yates .....  23$ 


Contents.  vii 

PAGE. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

[A  which  Mrs.  Dillingham  makes  some  important  discoveries,  but  fails  to 
reveal  them  to  the  reader 248 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

In  which  Mr.  Belcher  becomes  President  of  the  Crooked  Valley  Railroad, 
with  large  "  Terminal  facilities,"  and  makes  an  adventure  into  a  long- 
meditated  crime 261 

CHAPTER  XX. 

In  which  "  the  little  woman  "  announces  her  engagement  to  Jim  Fenton 
and  receives  the  congratulations  of  her  friends 276 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

In  which  Jim  gets  the  furniture  into  his  house,  and  Mike  Conlin  gets  an- 
'Hher  installment  of  advice  into  Jim 288 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

in  which  Jim  gets  married,  the  new  hotel  receives  its  mistress,  and  Bene 
dict  confers  a  power  of  attorney 295 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

In  which  Mr.  Belcher  expresses  his  determination  to  become  a  "  founder," 
but  drops  his  noun  in  fear  of  a  little  verb  of  the  same  name 311 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Wherein  the  General  leaps  the  bounds  of  law,  finds  himself  in  a  new 
world,  and  becomes  the  victim  of  his  friends  without  knowing  it „  331 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

In  which  the  General  g«es  through  a  great  many  trials,  and  meets  at  last 
the  one  he  has  so  long  anticipated 349 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

In  which  the  case  of  "  Benedict  vs.  Belcher  "  finds  itself  in  court,  an  in 
teresting  question  of  identity  is  settled,  and  a  mysterious  disappear 
ance  takes  place 363 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 
tn  which  Phipps  is  not  to  be  found,  and  the  General  is  called  upon  to  do 

hisown  lying q8ff 


viii  Contents. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Jn  which  a  heavenly  witness  appears  who  cannot  be  cross-examined,  and 
before  which  the  defense  utterly  breaks  down 400 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Wherein  Mr.  Belcher,  having  exhibited  his  dirty  record,  shows  a  clean 
pair  of  heels 41^ 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

Which  gives  the  history  of  an  anniversary,  presents  a  tableau,  and  drops 
the  curtain M 2< 


SEVENOAKS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHICH  TELLS  ABOUT   SEVENOAKS,  AND    HOW  MISS  BUTTERWORTH 
PASSED  ONE  OF  HER  EVENINGS. 

EVERYBODY  has  seen  Sevenoaks,  or  a  hundred  towns  so  much 
like  it,  in  most  particulars,  that  a  description  of  any  one  of 
them  would  present  it  to  the  imagination — a  town  strung  upon 
a  stream,  like  beads  upon  a  thread,  or  charms  upon  a  chain. 
Sevenoaks  was  richer  in  chain  than  charms,  for  its  abundant 
water-power  was  only  partially  used.  It  plunged,  and  roared, 
and  played,  and  sparkled,  because  it  had  not  half  enough  to 
do.  It  leaped  down  three  or  four  cataracts  in  passing  through 
the  village ;  and,  as  it  started  from  living  springs  far  north 
ward  among  the  woods  and  mountains,  it  never  failed  in  its 
supplies. 

Few  of  the  people  of  Sevenoaks — thoughtless  workers, 
mainly — either  knew  or  cared  whence  it  came,  or  whither  it 
went.  They  knew  it  as  "  The  Branch  ;"  but  Sevenoaks  was 
so  far  from  the  trunk,  down  to  which  it  sent  its  sap,  and  from 
which  it  received  no  direct  return,  that  no  significance  was 
attached  to  its  name.  But  it  roared  all  day,  and  roared  all 
night,  summer  and  winter  alike,  and  the  sound  became  a  part 
of  the  atmosphere.  Resonance  was  one  of  the  qualities  of 
the  oxygen  which  the  people  breathed,  so  that  if,  at  any  mid- 

I 


night  moment,  the  roar  had  been  suddenly  hushed,  they  would 
have  waked  with  a  start  and  a  sense  of  suffocation,  and  leaped 
from  their  beds. 

Among  the  charms  that  dangled  from  this  liquid  chain — 
depending  from  the  vest  of  a  landscape  which  ended  in  a 
ruffle  of  woods  toward  the  north,  overtopped  by  the  head  of 
a  mountain — was  a  huge  factory  that  had  been  added  to  from 
time  to  time,  as  necessity  demanded,  until  it  had  become  an 
imposing  and  not  uncomely  pile.  Below  this  were  two  or 
three  dilapidated  saw -mills,  a  grist-mill  in  daily  use,  and  a 
fulling-mill — a  remnant  of  the  old  times  when  homespun  went 
its  pilgrimage  to  town — to  be  fulled,  colored,  and  dressed — 
from  all  the  sparsely  settled  country  around. 

On  a  little  plateau  by  the  side  of  The  Branch  was  a  row  of 
stores  and  dram-shops  and  butchers'  establishments.  Each 
had  a  sort  of  square,  false  front,  pierced  by  two  staring 
windows  and  a  door,  that  reminded  one  of  a  lion  couchant — • 
very  large  in  the  face  and  very  thin  in  the  flank.  Then  there 
were  crowded  in,  near  the  mill,  little  rows  of  one-story  houses, 
occupied  entirely  by  operatives,  and  owned  by  the  owner  of 
the  mill.  All  the  inhabitants,  not  directly  connected  with 
the  mill,  were  as  far  away  from  it  as  they  could  go.  Their 
houses  were  set  back  upon  either  acclivity  which  rose  from  the 
gorge  that  the  stream  had  worn,  dotting  the  hill-sides  in  every 
direction.  There  was  a  clumsy  town-hall,  there  were  three 
or  four  churches,  there  was  a  high  school  and  a  low  tavern. 
It  was,  on  the  whole,  a  village  of  importance,  but  the  great 
mill  was  somehow  its  soul  and  center.  A  fair  farming  and 
grazing  country  stretched  back  from  it  eastward  and  west 
ward,  and  Sevenoaks  was  its  only  home  market. 

It  is  not  proposed,  in  this  history,  to  tell  where  Sevenoaks 
fras,  and  is  to-day.  It  may  have  been,  or  may  be,  in  Maine, 
or  New  Hampshire,  or  Vermont,  or  New  York.  It  was  in 
the  northern  part  of  one  of  these  States,  and  not  far  from  the 
border  of  a  wilderness,  almost  as  deep  and  silent  as  any  that 
can  be  found  beyond  the  western  limit  of  settlement  and 


SEVEN  OAKS.  3 

civilization.  The  red  man  had  left  it  forever,  but  the  bear, 
the  deer  and  the  moose  remained.  The  streams  and  lakes 
were  full  of  trout ;  otter  and  sable  still  attracted  the  trapper, 
and  here  and  there  a  lumberman  lingered  alone  in  his  cabin, 
enamored  of  the  solitude  and  the  wild  pursuits  to  which  a 
hardly  gentler  industry  had  introduced  him.  Such  lumber  as 
could  be  drifted  down  the  streams  had  long  been  cut  and 
driven  out,  and  the  woods  were  left  to  the  hunter  and  his 
prey,  and  to  the  incursions  of  sportsmen  and  seekers  for 
health,  to  whom  the  rude  residents  became  guides,  cooks,  and 
servants  of  all  work,  for  the  sake  of  occasional  society,  and 
that  ever-serviceable  consideration — money. 

There  were  two  establishments  in  Sevenoaks  which  stood  so 
far  away  from  the  stream  that  they  could  hardly  be  described 
as  attached  to  it.  Northward,  on  the  top  of  the  bleakest  hill 
in  the  region,  stood  the  Sevenoaks  poor-house.  In  dimen 
sions  and  population,  it  was  utterly  out  of  proportion  to  the 
size  of  the  town,  for  the  people  of  Sevenoaks  seemed  to  de 
generate  into  paupers  with  wonderful  facility.  There  was  one 
man  in  the  town  who  was  known  to  be  getting  rich,  while  all 
the  rest  grew  poor.  Even  the  keepers  of  the  dram-shops, 
though  they  seemed  to  do  a  thriving  business,  did  not  thrive. 
A  great  deal  of  work  was  done,  but  people  were  paid  very 
little  for  it.  If  a  man  tried  to  leave  the  town  for  the  purpose 
of  improving  his  condition,  there  was  always  some  mortgage 
on  his  property,  or  some  impossibility  of  selling  what  he  had 
for  money,  or  his  absolute  dependence  on  each  day's  labor 
for  each  day's  bread,  that  stood  in  the  way.  One  by  one— ^ 
sick,  disabled,  discouraged,  dead-beaten — they  drifted  into 
the  poor-house,  which,  as  the  years  went  on,  grew  into  a 
shabby,  double  pile  of  buildings,  between  which  ran  a  county 
road. 

This  establishment  was  a  county  as  well  as  a  town  institu 
tion,  and,  theoretically,  one  group  of  its  buildings  was  de 
voted  to  the  reception  of  county  paupers,  while  the  other 
was  assigned  to  the  poor  of  Sevenoaks.  Practically,  th« 


4  SEVMNOA&S. 

keeper  of  both  mingled  his  boarders  indiscriminately,  to  suit 
his  personal  convenience. 

The  hill,  as  it  climbed  somewhat  abruptly  from  the  western 
bank  of  the  stream — it  did  this  in  the  grand  leisure  of  the 
old  geologic  centuries — apparently  got  out  of  breath  and  sat 
down  when  its  task  was  half  done.  Where  it  sat,  it  left  a 
beautiful  plateau  of  five  or  six  acres,  and  from  this  it  rose,  and 
went  on  climbing,  until  it  reached  the  summit  of  its  effort, 
and  descended  the  other  side.  On  the  brow  of  this  plateau 
stood  seven  huge  oaks  which  the  chopper's  axe,  for  some  rea 
son  or  another,  had  spared ;  and  the  locality,  in  all  the  early 
years  of  settlement,  was  known  by  the  name  of  "  The  Seven 
Oaks."  They  formed  a  notable  landmark,  and,  at  last,  the 
old  designation  having  been  worn  by  usage,  the  town  was  in 
corporated  with  the  name  of  Sevenoaks,  in  a  single  word. 

On  this  plateau,  the  owner  of  the  mill,  Mr.  Robert  Belcher 
— himself  an  exceptional  product  of  the  village — had  built 
his  residence — a  large,  white,  pretentious  dwelling,  sur 
rounded  and  embellished  by  all  the  appointments  of  wealth. 
The  house  was  a  huge  cube,  ornamented  at  its  corners  and 
cornices  with  all  possible  flowers  of  a  rude  architecture,  re 
minding  one  of  an  elephant,  that,  in  a  fit  of  incontinent 
playfulness,  had  indulged  in  antics  characteristic  of  its  clumsy 
bulk  and  brawn.  Outside  were  ample  stables,  a  green-house, 
a  Chinese  pagoda  that  was  called  "the  summer-house,"  an 
exquisite  garden  and  trees,  among  which  latter  were  carefully 
cherished  the  seven  ancient  oaks  that  had  given  the  town  its 
name. 

Robert  Belcher  was  not  a  gentleman.  He  supposed  him 
self  to  be  one,  but  he  was  mistaken.  Gentlemen  of  wealth 
usually  built  a  fine  house ;  so  Mr.  Belcher  built  one.  Gentle 
men  kept  horses,  a  groom  and  a  coacnman ;  Mr.  Belcher  did 
the  same.  Gentlemen  of  wealth  built  green-houses  for  them 
selves  and  kept  a  gardener ;  Mr.  Belcher  could  do  no  less. 
He  had  no  gentlemanly  tastes,  to  be  sure,  but  he  could  buy 
or  hire  these  for  money ;  so  he  bought  and  hired  them ;  and 


SEVENOAKS.  5 

when  Robert  Belcher  walked  through  his  stables  and  jested 
with  his  men,  or  sauntered  into  his  green -house  and  about  his 
grounds,  he  rubbed  his  heavy  hands  together,  and  fancied 
that  the  costly  things  by  which  he  had  surrounded  himself 
were  the  insignia  of  a  gentleman. 

From  his  windows  he  could  look  down  upon  the  village, 
all  of  which  he  either  owned  or  controlled.  He  owned  the 
great  mill ;  he  owned  the  water-privilege ;  he  owned  many  of 
the  dwellings,  and  held  mortgages  on  many  others  j  he  owned 
the  churches,  for  all  purposes  practical  to  himself;  he  owned 
the  ministers — if  not,  then  this  was  another  mistake  that  he 
had  made.  So  long  as  it  was  true  that  they  could  not  live 
without  him,  he  was  content  with  his  title.  He  patronized 
the  church,  and  the  church  was  too  weak  to  decline  his  osten 
tatious  courtesy.  He  humiliated  every  man  who  came  into 
his  presence,  seeking  a  subscription  for  a  religious  or  charita 
ble  purpose,  but  his  subscription  was  always  sought,  and  as 
regularly  obtained.  Humbly  to  seek  his  assistance  for  any 
high  purpose  was  a  concession  to  his  power,  and  to  grant  the 
assistance  sought  was  to  establish  an  obligation.  He  was 
willing  to  pay  for  personal  influence  and  personal  glory,  and 
he  often  paid  right  royally. 

Of  course,  Mr.  Belcher's  residence  had  a  library ;  all  gen 
tlemen  have  libraries.  Mr.  Belcher's  did  not  contain  many 
books,  but  it  contained  a  great  deal  of  room  for  them.  Here 
he  spent  his  evenings,  kept  his  papers  in  a  huge  safe  built  into 
the  wall,  smoked,  looked  down  on  the  twinkling  village  and 
his  huge  mill,  counted  his  gains  and  constructed  his  schemes. 
Of  Mrs.  Belcher  and  the  little  Belchers,  he  saw  but  little. 
He  fed  and  dressed  them  well,  as  he  did  his  horses.  All  gen 
tlemen  feed  and  dress  their  dependents  well.  He  was  proud 
of  his  family  as  he  saw  them  riding  in  their  carriage.  They 
looked  gay  and  comfortable,  and  were,  as  he  thought,  objects 
of  envy  among  the  humbler  folk  of  the  town,  all  of  which 
reflected  pleasantly  upon  himself. 

Or  a  late  April  evening,  of  a  late  spring  in  18 — ,  he  was 


§  SEVEN  OAKS. 

Sitting  in  his  library,  buried  in  a  huge  easy  chair,  thinking, 
smoking,  scheming.  The  shutters  were  closed,  the  lamps 
were  lighted,  and  a  hickory  fire  was  blazing  upon  the  hearth. 
Around  the  rich  man  were  spread  the  luxuries  which  his 
wealth  had  bought — the  velvet  carpet,  the  elegant  chairs,  the 
iucavy  library  table,  covered  with  costly  appointments,  pio 
tures  in  broad  gold  frames,  and  one  article  of  furniture  that 
he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  see  in  a  gentleman's  library 
—an  article  that  sprang  out  of  his  own  personal  wants.  This 
was  an  elegant  pier-glass,  into  whose  depths  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  gaze  in  self-admiration.  He  was  flashily  dressed  in 
a  heavy  coat,  buff  waistcoat,  and  drab  trousers.  A  gold 
chain  of  fabulous  weight  hung  around  his  neck  and  held  his 
Jurgensen  repeater. 

He  rose  and  walked  his  room,  and  rubbed  his  hands,  as 
was  his  habit ;  then  paused  before  his  mirror,  admired  his 
robust  figure  and  large  face,  brushed  his  hair  back  from  his 
big  brow,  and  walked  on  again.  Finally,  he  paused  before 
his  glass,  and  indulged  in  another  habit  peculiar  to  him 
self. 

"Robert  Belcher/'  said  he,  addressing  the  image  in  the 
mirror,  "  you  are  a  brick  !  Yes,  sir,  you  are  a  brick !  You, 
Robert  Belcher,  sir,  are  an  almighty  smart  man.  You've 
outwitted  the  whole  of  'em.  Look  at  me,  sir !  Dare  you 
tell  me,  sir,  that  I  am  not  master  of  the  situation  ?  Ah !  you 
hesitate ;  it  is  well !  They  all  come  to  me,  every  man  of  'em 
It  is  '  Mr.  Belcher,  will  you  be  so  good  ?'  and  '  Mr.  Belcher, 
I  hope  you  are  very  well,'  and  'Mr.  Belcher,  I  want  you  to 
do  better  by  me. '  Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  My  name  is  Norval. 
It  isn't  ?  Say  that  again  and  I'll  throttle  you  1  Yes,  sir,  I'll 
shake  your  rascally  head  off  your  shoulders  !  Down,  down 
in  the  dust,  and  beg  my  pardon  1  It  is  well ;  go  1  Get 
you  gone,  sir,  and  remember  not  to  beard  the  lion  in  his 
den  !" 

Exactly  what  this  performance  meant,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say.  Mr.  Belcher,  in  his  visits  to  the  city,  had  frequented 


SEVENOAKS.  1 

theaters  and  admired  the  villains  of  the  plays  he  had  seen  re 
presented.  He  had  noticed  figures  upon  the  boards  that 
reminded  him  of  his  own.  His  addresses  to  his  mirror 
afforded  him  an  opportunity  to  exercise  his  gifts  of  speech 
and  action,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  give  form  to  his  self- 
gratulations.  They  amused  him;  they  ministered  to  his  pre 
posterous  vanity.  He  had  no  companions  in  the  town,  and 
the  habit  gave  him  a  sense  of  society,  and  helped  to  pass 
away  his  evenings.  At  the  close  of  his  effort  he  sat  down 
and  lighted  another  cigar.  Growing  drowsy,  he  laid  it  down 
on  a  little  stand  at  his  side,  and  settled  back  in  his  chair  for 
a  nap.  He  had  hardly  shut  his  eyes  when  there  came  a  rap 
upon  his  door. 
"Come  in!" 

"Please,  sir,"  said  a  scared-looking  maid,  opening  the 
door  just  wide  enough  to  ma.ke  room  for  her  face. 

"  Well?  "  in  a  voice  so  sharp  and  harsh  that  the  girl  cringed. 
"Please,  sir,  Miss  Butterworth  is  at  the  door,  and  would 
like  to  see  you." 

Now,  Miss  Butterworth  was  the  one  person  in  all  Seven- 
oaks  who  was  not  afraid  of  Robert  Belcher.  She  had  bten 
at  the  public  school  with  him  when  they  were  children;  she 
had  known  every  circumstance  of  his  history;  she  was  not  de 
pendent  on  him  in  any  way,  and  she  carried  in  her  head  an 
honest  and  fearless  tongue.  She  was  an  itinerant  tailoress, 
and  having  worked,  first  and  last,  in  nearly  every  family  in 
the  town,  she  knew  the  circumstances  of  them  all,  and  knew 
too  well  the  connection  of  Robert  Belcher  with  their  troubles 
and  reverses.  In  Mr.  Belcher's  present  condition  of  self-com 
placency  and  somnolency,  she  was  not  a  welcome  visitor. 
Belligerent  as  he  had  been  toward  his  own  image  in  the 
mirror,  he  shrank  from  meeting  Keziah  Butterworth,  for  he 
knew  instinctively  that  she  had  come  with  some  burden  of 
complaint. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Belcher  to  his  servant,  "and  shut 
the  door  behind  you." 


S  SEVEN  OAKS. 

The  girl  came  in,  shut  the  door,  and  waited,  leaning  against  it. 

"Go,"  said  her  master  in  a  low  tone,  "and  tell  Mrs.  Bel 
cher  that  I  am  busy,  and  that  she  must  choke  her  off.  I  can't 
see  her  to-night.  I  can't  see  her." 

The  girl  retired,  and  soon  afterward  Mrs.  Belcher  came, 
and  reported  that  she  could  do  nothing  with  Miss  Butter- 
worth — that  Miss  Butterworth  was  determined  to  see  him 
before  she  left  the  house. 

"Bring  her  in;  I'll  make  short  work  with  her." 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Belcher  retired,  her  husband  hurried  to 
the  mirror,  brushed  his  hair  back  fiercely,  and  then  sat  down 
to  a  pile  of  papers  that  he  always  kept  conveniently  upon  his 
library  table. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  in  his  blandest  tone,  when 
Miss  Butterworth  was  conducted  to  his  room. 

"Ah!  Keziah?"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  looking  up  with  a  smile, 
as  if  an  unexpected  old  friend  had  come  to  him. 

"My  name  is  Butterworth,  and  it's  got  a  handle  to  it,  * 
said  that  bumptious  lady,  quickly. 

"Well,  but,  Keziah,  you  know  we  used  to " 

"My  name  is  Butterworth,  I  tell  you,  and  it's  got  a 
handle  to  it." 

"Well,  Miss  Butterworth — happy  to  see  you — hope  you 
are  well — take  a  chair." 

"Humph,"  exclaimed  Miss  Butterworth,  dropping  down 
upon  the  edge  of  a  large  chair,  whose  back  felt  no  pressure 
from  her  own  during  the  interview.  The  expression  of  Mr. 
Belcher's  happiness  in  seeing  her,  and  his  kind  suggestion 
concerning  her  health,  had  overspread  Miss  Butterworth's 
Countenance  with  a  derisive  smile,  and  though  she  was  evi 
dently  moved  to  tell  him  that  he  lied,  she  had  reasons  for 
restraining  her  tongue. 

They  formed  a  curious  study,  i  they  sat  there  together, 
during  the  first  embarrassing  mom^  ts.  The  man  had  spent 
his  life  in  schemes  for  absorbing  the  products  of  the  labor  of 
Others.  He  was  cunning,  brutal,  vain,  showy,  and  essentially 


SEVENOAKS.  9 

vulgar,  from  his  head  to  his  feet,  in  every  fiber  of  body  and 
soul.  The  woman  had  earned  with  her  own  busy  hands  every 
dollar  of  money  she  had  ever  possessed.  She  would  not  have 
wronged  a  dog  for  her  own  personal  advantage.  Her  black 
eyes,  lean  and  spirited  face,  her  prematurely  whitening  locks, 
as  they  were  exposed  by  the  backward  fall  of  her  old-fash 
ioned,  quilted  hood,  presented  a  physiognomy  at  once  piquant 
and  prepossessing. 

Robert  Belcher  knew  that  the  woman  before  him  was  fear 
less  and  incorruptible.  He  knew  that  she  despised  him — that 
bullying  and  brow-beating  would  have  no  influence  with  her, 
that  his  ready  badinage  would  rot  avail,  and  that  coaxing 
and  soft  words  would  be  equally  "useless.  In  her  presence, 
he  was  shorn  of  all  his  weapons;  and  he  never  felt  so  defense 
less  and  ill  at  ease  in  his  life. 

As  Miss  Butterworth  did  not  seem  inclined  to  begin  con 
versation,  Mr.  Belcher  hem'd  and  haw'd  with  affected  non 
chalance,  and  said: 

"Ah! — to — what  am  I  indebted  for  this  visit.  Miss — ah — 
Butterworth?" 

"I'm  thinking!"  she  replied  sharply,  looking  into  the 
fire,  and  pressing  her  lips  together. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  to  this,  so  Mr.  Belcher  looked 
doggedly  at  her,  and  waited. 

"I'm  thinking  of  a  man,  and-he-was-a-man-every-inch-of  - 
him,  if  there  ever  was  one,  and  a  gentleman  too,  if-I-know- 
what-a-gentleman-is,  who  came  to  this  town  ten  years  agOj 
from-nobody-knows-where ;  with  a  wife  that  was  an  angel, 
if-there-is-any-such-thing-as-an-angel. ' ' 

Here  Miss  Butterworth  paused.  She  had  laid  her  founda 
tion,  and  proceeded  at  her  leisure. 

"He  knew  more  than  any  man  in  Seven  oaks,  but  he  didn't 
know  how  to  take  care  of  himself,"  she  went  on.  "  He  was 
the  most  ingenious  creature  God  ever  made,  I  do  think,  and 
his  name  was  Paul  Benedict." 

Mr.  Belcher  grew  pale  and  fidgeted  in  his  chair. 

I* 


to  SEVENOAKS. 

"And  his  name  was  Paul  Benedict.  He  invented  some* 
thing,  and  then  he  took  it  to  Robert  Belcher,  and  he  put  it 
into  his  mill,  and-  paid-  him- just-as-little-for~it-as-he-could. 
And  then  he  invented  something  more,  and-that-went-into- 
the-mill ;  and  then  something  more,  and  the  patent  was  used 
by  Mr.  Belcher  for  a  song,  and  the  man  grew  poorer  and 
poorer,  while-Mr. -Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time. 
And  then  he  invented  a  gun,  and  then  his  little  wife  died, 
and  what  with  the  expenses  of  doctors  and  funerals  and  such 
things,  and  the  money  it  took  to  get  his  patent,  which-I- 
begged-him-for-conscience'-sake-to-keep-out-of-Robert-Belch- 
er's-hands,  he  almost  starved  with  his  little  boy,  and  had  to  g(? 
xO  Robert  Belcher  for  money." 

"And  get  it,"  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"  How  much,  now?  A  hundred  little  dollars  for  what  was 
worth  a  hundred  thousand,  unless-everybody-lies.  The  wholf 
'vent  in  a  day,  and  then  he  went  crazy. ' ' 

"Well,  you  know  I  sent  him  to  the  asylum,"  responded 
Mr.  Belcher. 

"  I  know  you  did — yes,  I  know  you  did ;  and  you  tried  to 
get  him  well  enough  to  sign  a  paper,  which  the  doctor  never 
would  let  him  sign,  and  which  wouldn't  have  been  worth  a 
s';raw  if  he  had  signed  it.  The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man- 
t  o-sign-a-paper ! ' ' 

"  Well,  but  I  wanted  some  security  for  the  money  I  had 
advanced,"  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"No;  you  wanted  legal  possession  of  a  property  which 
would  have  made  him  rich ;  that's  what  it  was,  and  you  didn't 
get  it,  and  you  never  will  get  it.  He  can't  be  cured,  and 
he's  been  sent  back,  and  is  up  at  Tom  Buffum's  now,  and  I've 
seen  him  to-day." 

Miss  Butterworth  expected  that  this  intelligence  would  stun 
Mr.  Belcher,  but  it  did  not. 

The  gratification  of  the  man  with  the  news  was  unmistaka 
ble.  Paul  Benedict  had  no  relatives  or  friends  that  he  knew 
of.  All  his  dealings  with  him  had  been  without  witnesses, 


SEVE2VUAKS.  II 

The  only  person  living  besides  Robert  Belcher,  who  knew 
exactly  what  had  passed  between  his  victim  and  himself,  was 
hopelessly  insane.  The  difference,  to  him,  between  obtaining 
possession  of  a  valuable  invention  of  a  sane  or  an  insane  man, 
was  the  difference  between  paying  money  and  paying  none. 
In  what  way,  and  with  what  profit,  Mr.  Belcher  was  availing 
himself  of  Paul  Benedict's  last  invention,  no  one  in  Seven- 
oaks  knew;  but  all  the  town  knew  that  he  was  getting  rich, 
apparently  much  faster  than  he  ever  was  before,  and  that,  in 
a  distant  town,  there  was  a  manufactory  of  what  was  known 
as  "The  Belcher  Rifle." 

Mr.  Belcher  concluded  that  he  was  still  "master  of  the 
situation."  Benedict's  testimony  could  not  be  taken  in  a 
court  of  justice.  The  town  itself  was  in  his  hands,  so  that  it 
would  institute  no  suit  on  Benedict's  behalf,  now  that  he  had 
come  upon  it  for  support ;  for  the  Tom  Buffum  to  whom  Miss 
Butterworth  had  alluded  was  the  keeper  of  the  poor-house, 
and  was  one  of  his  own  creatures. 

Miss  Butterworth  had  sufficient  sagacity  to  comprehend  the 
reasons  for  Mr.  Belcher's  change  of  look  and  manner,  and 
saw  that  her  evening's  mission  would  prove  fruitless ;  but  her 
true  woman's  heart  would  not  permit  her  to  relinquish  her 
project. 

"Is  poor  Benedict  comfortable ?*;  he  inquired,  in  his  old, 
off-hand  way. 

"  Comfortable — yes,  in  the  way  that  pigs  are." 

"  Pigs  are  very  comfortable,  1  believe,  as  a  general  thing/* 
said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"  Bob  Belcher,"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  the  tears  springing 
to  her  eyes  in  spite  of  herself,  and  forgetting  all  the  proprie 
ties  she  had  determined  to  observe,  "  you  are  a  brute.  You 
know  you  are  a  brute.  He  is  in  a  little  cell,  no  larger  than — 
than — a  pig-pen.  There  isn't  a  bit  of  furniture  in  it.  He 
sleeps  on  the  straw,  and  in  the  straw,  and  under  the  straw, 
and  his  victuals  are  poked  at  h:.m  as  if  he  were  a  beast.  He 
is  a  poor,  patient,  emaciated  wretch,  and  he  sits  on  the  floolf 


II  SEVENOAKS. 

all  day,  and  weaves  the  most  beautiful  things  out  of  the  straw 
he  sits  on,  and  Tom  Buffum's  girls  have  got  them  in  the 
house  for  ornaments.  And  he  talks  about  his  rifle,  and  ex 
plains  it,  and  explains  it,  and  explains  it,  when  anybody  will 
listen  to  him,  and  his  clothes  are  all  in  rags,  and  that  little 
boy  of  his  that  they  have  in  the  house,  and  treat  no  better  than. 
if  he  were  a  dog,  knows  he  is  fhere,  and  goes  and  looks  a/ 
him,  and  calls  to  him,  and  cries  about  him  whenever  he  dares. 
And  you  sit  here,  in  your  great  house,  with  your  carpets  and 
chairs,  that  half  smother  you,  and  your  looking-glasses  and 
your  fine  clothes,  and  don't  start  to  your  feet  when  I  tell  you 
this.  I  tell  you  if  God  doesn't  damn  everybody  who  is  re 
sponsible  for  this  wickedness,  then  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
a  God." 

Miss  Butterworth  was  angry,  and  had  grown  more  and  more 
angry  with  every  word.  She  had  brooded  over  the  matter  all 
the  afternoon,  and  her  pent-up  indignation  had  overflowed 
beyond  control.  She  felt  that  she  had  spoken  truth  which 
Robert  Belcher  ought  to  hear  and  to  heed,  yet  she  knew  that 
she  had  lost  her  hold  upon  him.  Mr.  Belcher  listened  with 
the  greatest  coolness,  while  a  half  smile  overspread  his 
face. 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  a.  pretty  good-natured  man  to  sit 
here,"  said  he,  "and  hear  myself  abused  in  this  way,  without 
getting  angry?" 

"  No,  I  think  you  are  a  bad-natured  man.  I  think  you  are 
the  hardest-hearted  and  worst  man  I  ever  saw.  What  in 
God's  name  has  Paul  Benedict  done,  that  he  should  be  treated 
in  this  way?  There  are  a  dozen  there  just  like  him,  or  worse.  Is 
it  a  crime  to  lose  one's  reason?  I  wish  you  could  spend  one 
night  in  Paul  Benedict's  room." 

"Thank  you.     I  prefer  my  present  quarters." 

"Yes,  you  look  around  on  your  present  quarters,  as  you 
call  'em,  and  think  you'll  always  have  'em.  You  won't. 
Mark  my  words;  you  won't.  Some  time  you'll  overreach 
yourself,  and  cheat  yourself  out  of  'em.  See  if  you  don't." 


SEVENOAKS.  13 

"It  takes  a  smart  man  to  cheat  himself,  Miss  Butterworth," 
responded  Mr.  Belcher,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"There  is  just  where  you're  mistaken.     It  takes  a  fool." 

Mr.  Belcher  laughed  outright.  Then,  in  a  patronizing  way, 
he  said:  " Miss  Butterworth,  I  have  given  you  considerable 
time,  and  perhaps  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  state  your  busi 
ness.  I'm  a  practical  man,  and  I  really  don't  see  anything 
that  particularly  concerns  me  in  all  this  talk.  Of  course,  I'm 
sorry  for  Benedict  and  the  rest  of  'em,  but  Sevenoaks  isn't  a 
very  rich  town,  and  it  cannot  afford  to  board  its  paupers  at 
the  hotel,  or  to  give  them  many  luxuries." 

Miss  Butterworth  was  calm  again.  She  knew  that  she  had 
done  her  cause  no  good,  but  was  determined  to  finish  her 
errand. 

"Mr.  Belcher,  I'm  a  woman." 

"I  know  it,  Keziah." 

"And  my  name  is  Butterworth." 

"I  know  it." 

"You  do?  Wei",  then,  here  is  what  I  came  to  say  to  you. 
The  town-meeting  comes  to-morrow,  and  the  town's  poor  are 
to  be  sold  at  auction,  and  to  pass  into  Tom  Buffum's  hands 
again,  unless  you  prevent  it.  I  can't  make  a  speech,  and  I 
can't  vote.  I  never  wanted  to  until  now.  You  can  do  both, 
and  if  you  don't  reform  this  business,  and  set  Tom  Buffum  at 
doing  something  else,  and  treat  God's  poor  more  like  human 
beings,  I  shall  get  out  of  Sevenoaks  before  it  sinks ;  for  sink 
it  will  if  there  is  any  hole  big  enough  to  hold  it." 

"Well,  I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  deliberately. 

"Tell  me  you'll  do  it." 

"I'm  not  used  to  doing  things  in  a  hurry.  Mr.  Buffum  is 
a  friend  of  mine,  and  I've  always  regarded  him  as  a  very  good 
man  for  the  place.  Of  course,  if  there's  anything  wrong  it 
ought  to  be  righted,  but  I  think  you've  exaggerated." 

"No,  you  don't  mean  to  do  anything.  I  see  it.  Good 
night,"  and  she  had  swept  out  of  the  door  before  he  could 
say  another  word,  or  rise  from  his  chair. 


i4  SEVENOAKS. 

She  went  down  the  hill  into  the  village.  The  earth  was 
stiffening  with  the  frost  that  lingered  late  in  that  latitude,  and 
there  were  patches  of  ice,  across  which  she  picked  her  way. 
There  was  a  great  moon  overhead,  but  just  then  all  beautiful 
things,  and  all  things  that  tended  to  lift  her  thoughts  upward* 
seemed  a  mockery.  She  reached  the  quiet  home  of  Rev.  Sol* 
omon  Snow. 

"Who  knows  but  he  can  be  spurred  up  to  do  something?" 
she  said  to  herself. 

There  was  only  one  way  to  ascertain — so  she  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  was  received  so  kindly  by  Mr.  Snow  and  Mrs. 
Snow  and  the  three  Misses  Snow,  that  she  sat  down  and  un 
burdened  herself — first,  of  course,  as  regarded  Mr.  Robert 
Belcher,  and  second,  as  concerned  the  Benedicts,  father  and 
son. 

The  position  of  Mr.  Bel  jher  was  one  which  inspired  the 
minister  with  caution,  but  the  atmosphere  was  freer  in  his  house 
than  in  that  of  the  proprietor.  The  vocal  engine  whose  wheels 
had  slipped  upon  the  track  with  many  a  whirr,  as  she  started 
her  train  in  the  great  house  on  the  hill,  found  a  down  grade, 
and  went  off  easily.  Mr.  Snow  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  his  elbows 
resting  on  either  support,  the  thumb  and  every  finger  of  each 
hand  touching  its  twin  at  the  point,  and  forming  a  kind  of 
gateway  in  front  of  his  heart,  which  seemed  to  shut  out  or  let 
in  conviction  at  his  will.  Mrs.  Snow  and  the  girls,  whose 
admiration  of  Miss  Butterworth  for  having  dared  to  invade 
Mr.  Belcher's  library  was  unbounded,  dropped  their  work,  and 
listened  with  eager  attention.  Mr.  Snow  opened  the  gate 
occasionally  to  let  in  a  statement,  but  for  the  most  part  kept 
it  closed.  The  judicial  attitude,  the  imperturbable  spectacles, 
the  long,  pale  face  and  white  cravat  did  not  prevent  Miss 
Butterworth  from  "  freeing  her  mind ; "  and  when  she  finished 
the  task,  a  good  deal  had  been  made  of  the  case  of  the  insane 
paupers  of  Sevenoaks,  and  there  was  very  little  left  of  Mr. 
Robert  Belcher  and  Mr.  Thomas  Buffum. 

At  the  close  of  her  account  of  what  she  had  seen  at  tha 


SEVENOAKS.  15 

poor-house,  and  what  had  passed  between  her  and  the  great 
proprietor,  Mr.  Snow  cast  his  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  pursed 
his  lips,  and  somewhere  in  the  profundities  of  his  nature,  oi 
in  some  celestial  laboratory,  unseen  by  any  eyes  but  his  own, 
prepared  his  judgments. 

"  Cases  of  this  kind,"  said  he,  at  last,  to  his  excited  visi» 
tor,  whose  eyes  glowed  like  coals  as  she  looked  into  his  im 
passive  face,  "are  to  be  treated  with  great  prudence.  We  are 
obliged  to  take  things  as  they  air.  Personally  (with  a  rising 
inflection  and  a  benevolent  smile),  I  should  rejoice  to  see  the 
insane  poor  clothed  and  in  their  right  mind." 

"Let  us  clothe  'em,  then,  anyway,"  interjected  Miss  But- 
'erworth,  impatiently.  "And,  as  for  being  in  their  right 
jiind,  that's  more  than  can  be  said  of  those  that  have  the  care 
Of  'em." 

"Personally — Miss  Butterworth,  excuse  me — I  should  re 
joice  to  see  them  clothed  and  in  their  right  mind,  but  the  age 
of  miracles  is  past.  We  have  to  deal  with  the  facts  of  to-day 
— with  things  as  they  air.  It  is  possible,  nay,  for  aught  I 
know,  it  may  be  highly  probable,  that  in  other  towns  pauper 
ism  may  fare  better  than  it  does  with  us.  It  is  to  be  remem 
bered  that  Sevenoaks  is  itself  poor,  and  its  poverty  becomes 
one  of  the  factors  of  the  problem  which  you  have  propounded 
to  us.  The  town  of  Buxton,  our  neighbor  over  here,  pays  taxes, 
let  us  say,  of  seven  mills  on  the  dollar ;  we  pay  seven  mills  on 
the  dollar.  Buxton  is  rich  ;  we  are  poor.  Buxton  has  few 
paupers  ;  we  have  many.  Consequently,  Buxton  may  main 
tain  its  paupers  in  what  may  almost  be  regarded  as  a  state  of 
affluence.  It  may  go  as  far  as  feather-beds  and  winter  fires 
for  the  aged ;  nay,  it  may  advance  to  some  economical  form 
of  teeth-brushes,  and  still  demand  no  more  sacrifice  from  its 
people  than  is  constantly  demanded  of  us  to  maintain  our 
poor  in  a  humbler  way.  Then  there  are  certain  prudential 
considerations — certain,  I  might  almost  say,  moral  considera 
tions — which  are  to  be  taken  into  account.  It  will  never  do, 
in  a  town  like  ours,  to  make  pauperism  attractive — to  make 


16  SEVEN  OAKS. 

our  pauper  establishments  comfortable  asylums  for  idleness. 
It  j  must,  in  some  way,  be  made  to  seem  a  hardship  to  go  to 
the  poor-house." 

"  Well,  Sevenoaks  has  taken  care  of  that  with  a  vengeance," 
burst  out  Miss  Butterworth. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Butterworth ;  let  me  repeat,  that  it  must 
be  made  to  seem  a  hardship  to  go  to  the  poor-house.  Let  us 
say  that  we  have  accomplished  this  very  desirable  result.  So 
far,  so  good.  Give  our  system  whatever  credit  may  belong 
to  it,  and  still  let  us  frankly  acknowledge  that  we  have  suffer 
ing  left  that  ought  to  be  alleviated.  How  much  ?  In  what 
way  ?  Here  we  come  into  contact  with  another  class  of  facts. 
Paupers  have  less  of  sickness  and  death  among  them  than  any 
other  class  in  the  community.  There  are  paupers  in  our  es 
tablishment  that  have  been  there  for  twenty-five  years — a  fact 
which,  if  it  proves  anything,  proves  that  a  large  proportion 
of  the  wants  of  our  present  civilization  are  not  only  artificial 
in  their  origin,  but  harmful  in  their  gratifications.  Our  poor 
are  compelled  to  go  back  nearer  to  nature — to  old  mother  na 
ture — and  they  certainly  get  a  degree  of  compensation  for  it. 
It  increases  the  expenses  of  the  town,  to  be  sure." 

"Suppose  we  inquire  of  them,"  struck  in  Miss  Butterworth 
again,  "  and  find  out  whether  they  would  not  rather  be  treated 
better  and  die  earlier." 

"  Paupers  are  hardly  in  a  position  to  be  consulted  in  that 
way,"  responded  Mr.  Snow,  "and  the  alternative  is  one 
•jirhich,  considering  their  moral  condition,  they  would  have  no 
right  to  entertain." 

Miss  Butterworth  had  sat  through  this  rather  desultory  dis 
quisition  with  what  patience  she  could  command,  breaking  in 
upon  it  impulsively  at  various  points,  and  seen  that  it  was 
drifting  nowhere — at  least,  that  it  was  not  drifting  toward  the 
object  of  her  wishes.  Then  she  took  up  the  burden  of  talk, 
and  carried  it  on  in  her  very  direct  way. 

/'All  you  say  is  well  enough,  I  suppose,"  she  began,  "but 
I  don't  stop  to  reason  about  it,  and  I  don't  wish  to.  Here  is 


SEVENOAKS.  ij 

a  lot  of  human  beings  that  are  treated  like  brutes — sold  every 
year  to  the  lowest  bidder,  to  be  kept.  They  go  hungry,  and 
naked,  and  cold.  They  are  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  has 
no  more  blood  in  his  heart  than  there  is  in  a  turnip,  and  we 
pretend  to  be  Christians,  and  go  to  church,  and  coddle  our 
selves  with  comforts,  and  pay  no  more  attention  to  them  than 
we  should  if  their  souls  had  gone  where  their  money  went.  I 
tell  you  it's  a  sin  and  a  shame,  and  I  know  it.  I  feel  it.  And 
there's  a  gentleman  among  'em,  and  his  little  boy,  and  they 
must  be  taken  out  of  that  place,  or  treated  better  in  it.  I've 
madte  up  my  mind  to  that,  and  if  the  men  of  Sevenoaks  don't 
straighten  matters  on  that  horrible  old  hill,  then  they're  jusi 
no  men  at  all." 

Mr.  Snow  smiled  a  calm,  self-respectful  smile,  that  said,  as 
plainly  as  words  could  say :  "  Oh  !  I  know  women  :  they  are 
amiably  impulsive,  but  impracticable." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  there?  "  inquired  Miss  Butterworth, 
sharply. 

"Yes,  I've  been  there." 

"  And  conscience  forbid  !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Snow,  "  that  he 
should  go  again,  and  bring  home  what  he  brought  home  that 
time.  It  took  me  the  longest  time  to  get  them  out  of  the 
house!" 

"  Mrs.  Snow !  my  dear !  you  forget  that  we  have  a  stranger 
present." 

"  Well,  I  don't  forget  those  strangers,  anyway !  " 

The  three  Misses  Snow  tittered,  and  looked  at  one  an- 
other,  but  were  immediately  solemnized  by  a  glance  from  their 
father. 

Mrs.  Snow,  having  found  her  tongue — a  characteristically 
lively  and  emphatic  one — went  on  to  say : — 

"  I  think  Miss  Butterworth  is  right.  It's  a  burning  shame, 
and  you  ought  to  go  to  the  meeting  to-morrow,  and  put  it 
down." 

"Easily  said,  my  dear,"  responded  Mr.  Snow,  "but  you 
forget  that  Mr.  Belcher  is  Buffum's  friend,  and  that  it  is  im- 


iS  SEVENOAKS. 

possible  to  carry  any  measure  against  him  in  Sevenoaks.  ] 
grant  that  it  ought  not  to  be  so.  I  wish  it  were  otherwise  > 
but  we  must  take  things  as  they  air." 

"To  take  things  as  they  air,"  was  a  cardinal  aphorism  in 
Mr.  Snow's  budget  of  wisdom.  It  was  a  good  starting-point 
for  any  range  of  reasoning,  and  exceedingly  useful  to  a  man 
of  limited  intellect  and  little  moral  courage.  The  real  truth 
of  the  case  had  dawned  upon  Miss  Butterworth,  and  it  had 
rankled  in  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Snow  from  the  beginning  of  his 
pointless  talk.  He  was  afraid  of  offending  Robert  Belcher, 
for  not  only  did  his  church  need  repairing,  but  his  salary  Vas 
in  arrears,  and  the  wolf  that  had  chased  so  many  up  the  long 
hill  to  what  was  popularly  known  as  Tom  Buffum's  Boarding 
House  he  had  heard  many  a  night,  while  his  family  was  sleep 
ing,  howling  with  menace  in  the  distance. 

Mrs.  Snow  rebelled,  in  every  part  of  her  nature,  against 
the  power  which  had  cowed  her  reverend  companion.  There 
is  nothing  that  so  goads  a  spirited  woman  to  madness  as  the 
realization  that  any  man  controls  her  husband.  He  may  be 
subservient  to  her — a  cuckold  even — but  to  be  mated  with  a 
man  whose  soul  is  neither  his  own  nor  wholly  hers,  is  to  her 
the  torment  of  torments. 

"I  wish  Robert  Belcher  was  hanged,"  said  Mrs.  Snow, 
spitefully. 

"Amen!  and  my  name  is  Butterworth,  responded  that 
lady,  making  sure  that  there  should  be  no  mistake  as  to  the 
responsibility  for  the  utterance. 

"Why,  mother!"  exclaimed  the  three  hisses  Snow,  in 
wonder. 

"And  drawn  and  quartered!"  added  Mrs.  Snow,  empha«> 
tically. 

"Amen,  again!"  responded  Miss  Butterworth. 

"  Mrs.  Snow  !  my  dear  !  You  forget  that  you  are  a  Chris 
tian  pastor's  wife,  and  that  there  is  a  stranger  present." 

"No,  that  is  just  -"That  I  don't  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Snow. 
"  I  see  a  Christian  pastor  afraid  of  a  man  of  the  world,  who 


SEVEN  OAKS.  19 

cares  no  more  about  Christianity  than  he  does  about  a  pair  of 
old  shoes,  and  who  patronizes  it  for  the  sake  of  shutting  its 
mouth  against  him.  It  makes  me  angry,  and  makes  me  wish 
I  were  a  man ;  and  you  ought  to  go  to  that  meeting  to-mor 
row,  as  a  Christian  pastor,  and  put  down  this  shame  and 
wickedness.  You  have  influence,  if  you  will  use  it.  All 
the  people  want  is  a  leader,  and  some  one  to  tell  them  the 
truth." 

"Yes,  father,  I'm  sure  you  have  a  great  deal  of  influence," 
said  the  elder  Miss  Snow. 

"A  great  deal  of  influence,"  responded  the  next  in  years. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  echoed  the  youngest. 

Mr.  Snow  established  the  bridge  again,  by  bringing  his 
fingers  together, — whether  to  keep  out  the  flattery  that  thus 
.came  like  a  subtle  balm  to  his  heart,  or  to  keep  in  the 
self-complacency  which  had  been  engendered,  vas  not  apparent. 

He  smiled,  looking  benevolently  out  upon  the  group,  and 
said:  "Oh,  you  women  are  so  hasty,  so  hasty,  so  hasty! 
I  had  not  said  that  I  would  not  interfere.  Indeed,  I  had 
pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  do  so.  But  I  wanted  you 
in  advance  to  see  things  as  they  air.  It  may  be  that  some 
thing  can  be  done,  and  it  certainly  will  be  a  great  satis 
faction  to  me  if  I  can  be  the  humble  instrument  for  the 
accomplishment  of  a  reform." 

"And  you  will  go  to  the  meeting?  and  you  will  speak?" 
said  Miss  Butterworth,  eagerly. 

"Yes!"  and  Mr.  Snow  looked  straight  into  Miss  Butter- 
vorth's  tearful  eyes,  and  smiled. 

;'  The  Lord  add  His  blessing,  and  to  His  name  be  all  the 
praise!  Good-night!"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  rising  and 
making  for  the  door. 

"Dear,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  springing  and  catching  her  by 
the  arm,  "  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  put  on  something 
more?  It's  very  chilly  to-mght." 

"Not  a  rag.  I'm  hot.  I  believe  I  should  roast  if  I  had 
on  a  feather  more." 


\ 


so  SEVENOAKS. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  Mr.  Snow  to  go  home  with  you?  He 
can  go  just  as  well  as  not,"  insisted  Mrs.  Snow. 

"  Certainly,  just  as  well  as  not,"  repeated  the  elder  Miss 
Snow,  followed  by  the  second  with:  "as  well  as  not,"  and 
by  the  third  with :  "  and  be  glad  to  do  it." 

"No — no — no — no" — to  each.  "I  can  get  along  better 
without  him,  and  I  don't  mean  to  give  him  a  chance  to  take 
back  what  he  has  said." 

Miss  Butterworth  ran  down  the  steps,  the  whole  family 
standing  in  the  open  door,  with  Mr.  Snow,  in  his  glasses,  be 
hind  his  good-natured,  cackling  flock,  thoroughly  glad  that 
his  protective  services  were  deemed  of  so  small  value  by  the 
brave  little  tailoress. 

Then  Miss  Butterworth  could  see  the  moon  and  the  stars. 
Then  she  could  see  how  beautiful  the  night  was.  Then  she 
became  conscious  of  the  everlasting  roar  of  the  cataracts,  and 
of  the  wreaths  of  mist  that  they  sent  up  into  the  crisp  even 
ing  air.  To  the  fear  of  anything  in  Sevenoaks,  in  the  day  or 
in  the  night,  she  was  a  stranger ;  so,  with  a  light  heart,  talk 
ing  and  humming  to  herself,  she  went  by  the  silent  mill,  the 
noisy  dram-shops,  and,  with  her  benevolent  spirit  full  of  hope 
and  purpose,  reached  the  house  where,  in  a  humble  hired 
room  she  had  garnered  all  her  treasures,  including  the  beet 
and  the  linen  which  she  had  prepared  years  before  for  an  event 
that  never  took  place. 

"The  Lord  add  His  blessing,  and  to  His  name  be  all  the 
praise,"  she  said,  as  she  extinguished  the  candle,  laughing  in 
spite  of  herself,  to  think  how  she  had  blurted  out  the  prayer 
and  the  ascription  in  the  face  of  Solomon  Snow. 

"  Well,  he's  a  broken  reed-  -a  broken  reed — but  I  hope 
Mrs.  Snow  will  tie  something  to  him — or  starch  him — or — 
something — to  make  him  stand  straight  for  once,"  and  then 
she  went  to  sleep,  and  dreamed  of  fighting  with  Robert  Bel 
cher  all  night. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MR.  BELCHER  CARRIES    HIS  POINT  AT  THE  TOWN-MEETING,   AND 
THE   POOR  ARE   KNOCKED   DOWN   TO   THOMAS    BUFFUM. 

THE  abrupt  departure  of  Miss  Butterworth  left  Mr.  Belcher 
piqued  and  surprised.  Although  he  regarded  himself  as  still 
"master  of  the  situation  " — to  use  his  own  pet  phrase, — the 
visit  of  that  spirited  woman  had  in  various  ways  humiliated 
him.  To  sit  in  his  own  library,  with  an  intruding  woman 
who  not  only  was  not  afraid  of  him  but  despised  him,  to  sit 
before  her  patiently  and  be  called  "Bob  Belcher,"  and  a 
brute,  and  not  to  have  the  privilege  of  kicking  her  out  of 
doors,  was  the  severest  possible  trial  of  his  equanimity.  She 
left  him  so  suddenly  that  he  had  not  had  the  opportunity  to 
insult  her,  for  he  had  fully  intended  to  do  this  before  she  re 
tired.  He  had  determined,  also,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that 
in  regard  to  the  public  poor  of  Sevenoaks  he  would  give  all 
his  influence  toward  maintaining  the  existing  state  of  things. 
The  idea  of  being  influenced  by  a  woman,  particularly  by  a 
woman  over  whom  he  had  no  influence,  to  change  his  policy 
with  regard  to  anything,  public  or  private,  was  one  against 
which  all  the  brute  within  him  rebelled. 

In  this  state  of  mind,  angry  with  himself  for  having  toler 
ated  one  who  had  so  boldly  and  ruthlessly  wounded  his  self- 
love,  he  had  but  one  resort.  He  could  not  confess  his 
humiliation  to  his  wife ;  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  world 
with  whom  he  could  hold  conversation  on  the  subject,  except 
his  old  confidant  who  came  into  the  mirror  when  wanted,  and 
conveniently  retired  when  the  interview  closed. 

Rising  from  his  chair,  and  approaching  his  mirror,  as  if  he 

21 


19  SEVEN  OAKS. 

had  been  whipped,  he  stood  a  full  minute  regarding  his  dis 
graced  and  speechless  image.  "  Are  you  Robert  Belcher, 
Esquire,  of  Sevenoaks?  "  he  inquired,  at  length.  "Are  you 
the  person  who  has  been  insulted  by  a  woman  ?  Look  at  me, 
sir  !  Turn  not  away  !  Have  you  any  constitutional  objec 
tions  to  telling  me  how  you  feel  ?  Are  you,  sir,  the  proprie 
tor  of  this  house  ?  Are  you  the  owner  of  yonder  mill  ?  Are 
you  the  distinguished  person  who  carries  Sevenoaks  in  hia 
pocket  ?  How  are  the  mighty  fallen  !  And  you,  sir,  who 
have  been  insulted  by  a  tailoress,  can  stand  here,  and  look 
me  in  the  face,  and  still  pretend  to  be  a  man  !  You  are  a 
scoundrel,  sir — a  low,  mean-spirited  scoundrel,  sir.  You  are 
nicely  dressed,  but  you  are  a  puppy.  Dare  to  tell  me  you  are 
not,  and  I  will  grind  you  under  my  foot,  as  I  would  grind  a 
worm.  Don't  give  me  a  word — not  a  word  I  I  am  not  in  a 
mood  to  bear  it !  " 

Having  vented  his  indignation  and  disgust,  with  the  fiercest 
facial  expression  and  the  most  menacing  gesticulations,  he 
became  calm,  and  proceeded : 

"  Benedict  at  the  poor-house,  hopelessly  insane  !  Tell  me 
now,  and,  mark  you,  no  lies  here !  Who  developed  his  inven 
tions  ?  Whose  money  was  risked  ?  What  did  it  cost  Bene 
dict  ?  Nothing.  What  did  it  cost  Robert  Belcher  ?  More 
thousands  than  Benedict  ever  dreamed  of.  Have  you  don* 
your  duty,  Robert  Belcher?  Ay,  ay,  sir!  I  believe  you. 
Did  you  turn  his  head  ?  No,  sir.  I  believe  you ;  it  is  well ! 
I  have  spent  money  for  him— first  and  last,  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  him;  and  any  man  or  woman  who  disputes  me  is  a 
liar— a  base,  malignant  liar !  Who  is  still  master  of  the  situa 
tion  ?  Whose  name  is  Norval  ?  Whose  are  these  Grampian 
Hills  ?  Who  intends  to  go  to  the  town-meeting  to-morrow, 
and  have  things  fixed  about  as  he  wants  them  ?  Who  will 
make  Keziah  Butterworth  weep  and  howl  with  anguish  ?  Let 
Robert  Belcher  alone!  Alone!  Far  in  azure  depths  of 
space  (here  Mr.  Belcher  extended  both  arms  heavenward,  and 
regarded  his  image  admiringly),  fer — far  away  1  Well,  you're 


SEVEN  OAKS.  tj 

«  pretty  good-looking  man,  after  all,  and  I'll  let  you  off  this 
time;  but  don't  let  me  catch  you  playing  baby  to  another 
woman  !  I  think  you'll  be  able  to  take  care  of  yourself 
[nodding  slowly.]  By-by  !  Good-night  1  " 

Mr.  Belcher  retired  from  the  glass  with  two  or  three  pro 
found  bows,  his  face  beaming  with  restored  self-complacency, 
and,  taking  his  chair,  he  resumed  his  cigar.  At  this  moment, 
there  arose  in  his  memory  a  single  sentence  he  had  read  in 
the  warrant  for  the  meeting  of  the  morrow:  "  To  see  if  the 
town  will  take  any  steps  for  the  improvement  of  the  condi 
tion  of  the  poor,  now  supported  at  the  public  charge. " 

When  he  read  this  article  of  the  warrant,  posted  in  the 
public  places  of  the  village,  it  had  not  impressed  him  particu 
larly.  Now,  he  saw  Miss  Butterworth's  hand  in  it.  Evi 
dently,  Mr.  Belcher  was  not  the  only  man  who  had  been 
honored  by  a  call  from  that  philanthropic  woman.  As  Inn 
thought  the  matter  over,  he  regretted  that,  for  the  sake  of 
giving  form  and  force  to  his  spite  against  her,  he  should  1^5 
obliged  to  relinquish  the  popularity  he  might  have  won  by 
favoring  a  reformative  measure.  He  saw  something  in  it, 
also,  that  might  be  made  to  add  to  Tom  Buffum's  profits, 
but  even  this  consideration  weighed  nothing  against  his  desire 
for  personal  revenge,  to  be  exhibited  in  the  form  of  tri 
umphant  personal  power. 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  walked  his  room,  swinging  his 
hands  backward  and  forward,  casting  furtive  glances  into  his 
mirror,  and  then  rang  his  bell.  He  had  arrived  at  a  conch* 
sion.  He  had  fixed  upon  his  scheme,  and  was  ready  for  work. 

"  Tell  Phipps  to  come  here,"  he  said  to  the  maid  who  re 
sponded  to  the  summons. 

Phipps  was  his  coachman,  body^irvant,  table-waiter,  pet, 
butt  tor  his  jests,  tool,  man  of  all  occasions.  He  considered 
himself  a  part  of  Mr.  Belcher's  personal  property.  To  be  the 
object  of  his  clumsy  badinage,  when  visitors  were  present  and 
his  master  was  particularly  amiable,  was  equivalent  to  an  hon 
orable  public  notice.  He  took  Mr.  Belcher's  cast-off  clothes, 


•4  SEVENOAKS. 

and  had  them  reduced  in  their  dimensions  for  his  own  wear* 
ing,  and  was  thus  always  able  to  be  nearly  as  well  dressed  and 
foppish  as  the  man  for  whom  they  were  originally  made.  He 
was  as  insolent  to  others  as  he  was  obsequious  to  his  master—^ 
a  flunky  by  nature  and  long  education. 

Phipps  appeared. 

"Well,  Phipps,  what  are  you  here  for?"  inquired  Mr. 
Belcher. 

"  I  was  told  you  wanted  me,  sir,"  looking  doubtfully  with 
his  cunning  eyes  into  Mr.  Belcher's  face,  as  if  questioning 
his  mood. 

"  How  is  your  health?  You  look  feeble.  Overwhelmed 
by  your  tremendous  duties  ?  Been  sitting  up  late  along  back  ? 
Gh  ?  You  rascal !  Who's  the  happy  woman?  " 

Phipps  laughed,  and  twiddled  his  fingers. 

"  You're  a  precious  fellow,  and  I've  got  to  get  rid  of  you. 
You  are  altogether  too  many  for  me.  Where  did  you  get 
that  coat  ?  It  seems  to  me  I've  seen  something  like  that 
before.  Just  tell  me  how  you  do  it,  man.  I  can't  dress  the 
way  you  do.  Yes,  Phipps,  you're  too  many  for  me !  " 

Phipps  smiled,  aware  that  he  was  expected  to  make  no 
reply. 

"  Phipps,  do  you  expect  to  get  up  to-morrow  morning?  " 

"Yes,  .sir." 

"  Oh,  you  do  I     Very  well  I     See  that  you  do." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  Phipps—" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Bring  the  grays  and  the  light  wagon  to  the  door  to-mor- 
row  morning  at  seven  o'clock." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  Phipps,  gather  all  the  old  clothes  about  the  house 
that  you  can't  use  yourself,  and  tie  'em  up  in  a  bundle,  and 
put  'em  into  the  back  of  the  wagon.  Mum  is  the  word,  and 
if  Mrs.  Belcher  asks  you  any  questions,  tell  her  I  think  of 
turning  Sister  of  Charity." 


SEVENOAK&  1$ 

Phipps  snicKered. 

"  And  Phipps,  make  a  basket  of  cold  meat  and  goodies, 
and  put  in  with  the  clothes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  Phipps,  remember : — seven  o'clock,  sharp,  and  no 
soldiering." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  Phipps,  here  is  a  cigar  that  cost  twenty-five  cents.' 
Do  it  up  in  a  paper,  and  lay  it  away.  Keep  it  to  remember 
me  by." 

This  joke  was  too  good  to  be  passed  over  lightly,  and  so 
Phipps  giggled,  took  the  cigar,  put  it  caressingly  to  his  nose, 
and  then  slipped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  Now  make  yourself  scarce,"  said  his  master,  and  the  man 
retired,  entirely  conscious  that  the  person  he  served  had  some 
rascally  scheme  on  foot,  and  heartily  sympathetic  with  him  in 
the  project  of  its  execution. 

Promptly  at  seven  the  next  morning,  the  rakish  pair  of 
trotters  stood  before  the  door,  with  a  basket  and  a  large 
bundle  in  the  back  of  the  rakish  little  wagon.  Almost  at  the 
same  moment,  the  proprietor  came  out,  buttoning  his  over 
coat.  Phipps  leaped  out,  then  followed  his  master  into  the 
wagon,  who,  taking  the  reins,  drove  off  at  a  rattling  pace  Up 
the  long  hill  toward  Tom  Buffum's  boarding-house.  The 
road  lay  entirely  outside  of  the  village,  so  that  the  unusual 
drive  was  not  observed. 

Arriving  at  the  poor-house,  Mr.  Belcher  gave  the  reins  to 
his  servant,  and.  with  a  sharp  rap  upon  the  door  with  the  butt 
of  his  whip,  summoned  to  the  latch  the  red-faced  and  stuffy 
keeper.  What  passed  between  them,  Phipps  did  not  hear, 
although  he  tried  very  hard  to  do  so.  At  the  close  of  a  half 
hour's  buzzing  conversation,  Tom  Buffum  took  the  bundle 
from  the  wagon,  and  pitched  it  into  his  doorway.  Then, 
with  the  basket  on  his  arm,  he  and  Mr.  Belcher  made  their 
way  across  the  street  to  the  dormitories  and  cells  occupied  by 
the  paupers  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  and  conditions.  Even 
2 


26  SEVENOAKS. 

the  hard-hearted  proprietor  saw  that  which  Bounded  his 
blunted  sensibilities ;  but  he  looked  on  with  a  bland  face,  ana 
witnessed  the  greedy  consumption  of  the  staJe  dainties  of  his 
own  table. 

It  was  by  accident  that  he  was  led  out  by  a  side  passage, 
and  there  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  cells  to  which  Miss  But- 
terworth  had  alluded,  and  inhaled  an  atmosphere  which 
sickened  him  to  paleness,  and  brought  to  his  lips  the  ex 
clamation  :  "  For  God's  sake  let's  get  out  of  this." 

"  Ay  !  ay  !"  came  tremblingly  from  behind  the  bars  of  a 
cell,  "let's  get  out  of  this." 

Mr.  Belcher  pushed  toward  the  light,  but  not  so  quickly 
that  a  pair  of  eyes,  glaring  from  the  straw,  failed  to  recognize 
him. 

"  Robert  Belcher !  Oh,  for  God's  sake !   Robert  Belcher !" 

It  was  a  call  of  wild  distress — a  whine,  a  howl,  an  objurga 
tion,  all  combined.  It  was  repeated  as  long  as  he  could  hear 
it.  It  sounded  in  his  ears  as  he  descended  the  hill.  It  came 
again  and  again  to  him  as  he  was  seated  at  his  comfortable 
breakfast.  It  rang  in  the  chambers  of  his  consciousness  for 
hours,  and  only  a  firm  and  despotic  will  expelled  it  at  last. 
He  knew  the  voice,  and  he  never  wished  to  hear  it  again. 

What  he  had  seen  that  morning,  and  what  he  had  done, 
where  he  had  been,  and  why  he  had  gone,  were  secrets  to 
which  his  wife  and  children  were  not  admitted.  The  rela 
tions  between  himself  and  his  wife  were  not  new  in  the  world. 
He  wished  to  retain  her  respect,  so  he  never  revealed  to  her 
his  iniquities.  She  wished  as  far  as  possible  to  respect  him, 
so  she  never  made  uncomfortable  inquiries.  He  was  bounti 
ful  to  her.  He  had  been  bountiful  to  many  others.  She 
clothed  and  informed  all  his  acts  of  beneficence  with  the 
motives  which  became  them.  If  she  was  ever  shocked  by  his 
vulgarity,  he  never  knew  it  by  any  word  of  hers,  in  disap 
proval.  If  she  had  suspicions,  she  did  not  betray  them. 
Her  children  were  trained  to  respect  their  father,  and  among 
them  she  found  the  satisfactions  of  her  life.  He  had  long 


SEVEN  OAKS.  27 

ceased  to  be  her  companion.  As  an  associate,  friend,  lover, 
she  had  given  him  up,  and,  burying  in  her  heart  all  her  griefs 
and  all  her  loneliness,  had  determined  to  make  the  best  of 
her  life,  and  to  bring  her  children  to  believe  that  their  father 
was  a  man  of  honor,  of  whom  they  had  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed.  If  she  was  proud,  hers  was  an  amiable  pride,  and 
to  Mr.  Belcher's  credit  let  it  be  said  that  he  respected  her  as 
much  as  he  wished  her  to  honor  him. 

For  an  hour  after  breakfast,  Mr.  Belcher  was  occupied  in 
his  library,  with  his  agent,  in  the  transaction  of  his  daily 
business.  Then,  just  as  the  church  bell  rang  its  preliminary 
summons  for  the  assembling  of  the  town-meeting,  Phipps 
came  to  the  door  again  with  the  rakish  grays  and  the  rakish 
wagon,  and  Mr.  Belcher  drove  down  the  steep  hill  into  the 
village,  exchanging  pleasant  words  with  the  farmers  whom  he 
encountered  on  the  way,  and  stopping  at  various  shops, 
to  speak  with  those  upon  whom  he  depended  for  voting 
through  whatever  public  schemes  he  found  it  desirable  to 
favor. 

The  old  town-hall  was  thronged  for  half-an-hour  before  the 
time  designated  in  the  warrant.  Finally,  the  bell  ceased  to- 
ring,  at  the  exact  moment  when  Mr.  Belcher  drove  to  the 
door  and  ascended  the  steps.  There  was  a  buzz  all  over  th« 
house  when  he  entered,  and  he  was  surrounded  at  once. 

"Have  it  just  as  you  want  it,"  shaking  his  head  ostenta 
tiously  and  motioning  them  away,  "  don't  mind  anything 
about  me.  I'm  a  passenger,"  he  said  aloud,  and  with  a 
laugh,  as  the  meeting  was  called  to  order  and  the  warrant 
read,  and  a  nomination  for  moderator  demanded. 

"  Peter  Vernol,"  shouted  a  dozen  voices  in  unison. 

Peter  Vernol  had  represented  the  district  in  the  Legisla 
ture,  and  was  supposed  to  be  familiar  with  parliamentary 
usage.  He  was  one  of  Mr.  Belcher's  men,  of  course — as 
truly  owned  and  controlled  by  him  as  Phipps  himself. 

Peter  Vernol  became  moderator  by  acclamation.  He  was 
a  young  man,  and,  ascending  the  platform  very  red  in  the 


v6  SEVEN  OAKS. 

face,  and  looking  out  upon  the  assembled  voters  of  Seven* 
oaks,  he  asked  with  a  trembling  voice : 

"  What  is  the  further  pleasure  of  the  meeting?" 

"  I  move  you,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  rising,  and  throwing  open 
bis  overcoat,  "that  the  Rev.  Solomon  Snow,  whom  I  am  ex 
ceedingly  glad  to  see  present,  open  our  deliberations  with 
prayer." 

The  moderator,  forgetting  apparently  that  the  motion  had,1 
not  been  put,  thereupon  invited  the  reverend  gentleman  to 
the  platform,  from  which,  when  his  service  had  been  com 
pleted,  he  with  dignity  retired — but  with  the  painful  con 
sciousness  that  in  some  way  Mr.  Belcher  had  become  aware  of 
the  philanthropic  task  he  had  undertaken.  He  knew  he  was 
beaten,  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  enterprise — that  his  con 
versations  of  the  morning  among  his  neighbors  had  been 
reported,  and  that  Paul  Benedict  and  his  fellow-sufferers 
would  be  none  the  better  for  him. 

The  business  connected  with  the  various  articles  of  the  war 
rant  was  transacted  without  notable  discussion  or  difference. 
Mr.  Belcher's  ticket  for  town  officers,  which  he  took  pains  to 
show  to  those  around  him,  was  unanimously  adopted.  When 
it  came  to  the  question  of  schools,  Mr.  Belcher  indulged  in  a 
few  flights  of  oratory.  He  thought  it  impossible  for  a  town 
like  Sevenoaks  to  spend  too  much  money  for  schools.  He 
felt  himself  indebted  to  the  public  school  for  all  that  he  was, 
and  all  that  he  had  won.  The  glory  of  America,  in  his  view — 
its  pre-eminence  above  all  the  exhausted  and  decayed  civiliza 
tions  of  the  Old  World — was  to  be  found  in  popular  educa 
tion.  It  was  the  distinguishing  feature  of  our  new  and  abound 
ing  national  life.  Drop  it,  falter,  recede,  and  the  darkness  that 
now  hangs  over  England,  and  the  thick  darkness  that  envelops 
the  degenerating  hordes  of  the  Continent,  would  settle  down 
upon  fair  America,  and  blot  her  out  forever  from  the  list  of 
the  earth's  teeming  nations.  He  would  pay  good  wages  to 
teachers.  He  would  improve  school -houses,  and  he  would 
do  it  as  a  matter  of  economy.  It  was,  in  his  view,  the  only 


SEVENOAKS.  29 

safeguard  against  the  encroachments  of  a  destructive  pauper 
ism.  "  We  are  soon,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "to  consider  whether 
we  will  take  any  steps  for  the  improvement  of  the  condition 
of  the  poor,  now  supported  at  the  public  charge.  Here  is  our 
first  step.  Let  us  endow  our  children  with  such  a  degree  of 
intelligence  that  pauperism  shall  be  impossible.  In  this  thing 
I  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  clergy.  On  many  points  I  do  not 
agree  with  them,  but  on  this  matter  of  popular  education,  I 
will  do  them  the  honor  to  say  that  they  have  uniformly  been 
in  advance  of  the  rest  of  us.  I  join  hands  with  them  here 
to-day,  and,  as  any  advance  in  our  rate  of  taxation  for  schools 
will  bear  more  heavily  upon  me  than  upon  any  other  citizen — 
I  do  not  say  it  boastingly,  gentlemen — I  pledge  myself  to 
support  and  stand  by  it." 

Mr.  Belcher's  speech,  delivered  with  majestic  swellings  of 
his  broad  chest,  the  ostentatious  removal  of  his  overcoat,  and 
brilliant  passages  of  oratorical  action,  but  most  imperfectly 
summarized  in  this  report,  was  received  with  cheers.  Mr. 
Snow  himself  feebly  joined  in  the  approval,  although  he  knew 
it  was  intended  to  disarm  him.  His  strength,  his  resolution, 
his  courage,  ebbed  away  with  sickening  rapidity;  and  he  was 
not  reassured  by  a  glance  toward  the  door,  where  he  saw, 
sitting  quite  alone,  Miss  Butterworth  herself,  who  had  come 
in  for  the  purpose  partly  of  strengthening  him,  and  partly  of 
informing  herself  concerning  the  progress  of  a  reform  which 
had  taken  such  strong  hold  upon  her  sympathies. 

At  length  the  article  in  the  warrant  which  most  interested 
ihat  good  lady  was  taken  up,  and  Mr.  Snow  rose  to  speak 
upon  it.  He  spoke  of  the  reports  he  had  heard  concerning 
the  bad  treatment  that  the  paupers,  and  especially  those  who 
were  hopelessly  insane,  had  received  in  the  almshouse,  en 
larged  upon  the  duties  of  humanity  and  Christianity,  and 
expressed  the  conviction  that  the  enlightened  people  of  Seven- 
oaks  should  spend  more  money  for  the  comfort  of  the 
unfortunate  whom  Heaven  had  thrown  upon  their  charge, 
and  particularly  that  they  should  institute  a  more  search- 


$o  SEVEN  OAKS. 

ing   and  competent    inspection   of   their  pauper    establish 
ment. 

As  he  took  his  seat,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  Mr.  Belcher, 
and  that  gentleman  rose  for  a  second  exhibition  of  his  charac 
teristic  eloquence. 

"1  do  not  forget,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "that  we  have  pre 
sent  here  to-day  an  old  and  well-tried  public  servant.  I  see 
before  me  Mr.  Thomas  Buffum,  who,  for  years,  has  had  in 
charge  the  poor,  not  only  of  this  town,  but  of  this  county.  I 
do  not  forget  that  his  task  has  been  one  of  great  delicacy, 
with  the  problem  constantly  before  him  how  to  maintain  in 
comfort  our  most  unfortunate  class  of  population,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  reduce  to  its  minimum  the  burden  of  our  tax 
payers.  That  he  has  solved  this  problem  and  served  the  public 
well,  I  most  firmly  believe.  He  has  been  for  many  years  my 
trusted  personal  friend,  and  I  cannot  sit  here  and  hear  his 
administration  questioned,  and  his  integrity  and  humanity 
doubted,  without  entering  my  protest.  [Cheers,  during  which 
Mr.  Buffum  grew  very  red  in  the  face.]  He  has  had  a  task 
to  perform  before  which  the  bravest  of  us  would  shrink.  We, 
who  sit  in  our  peaceful  homes,  know  little  of  the  hardships  to 
which  this  faithful  public  servant  has  been  subjected.  Pau 
perism  is  ungrateful.  Pauperism  is  naturally  filthy.  Pauperism 
is  noisy.  It  consists  of  humanity  in  its  most  repulsive  forms, 
and  if  we  have  among  us  a  man  who  can — who  can — stand  it, 
let  us  stand  by  him."  [Tremendous  cheers.] 

Mr.  Belcher  paused  until  the  wave  of  applause  had  sub 
sided,  and  then  went  on : 

"  An  open-hand,  free  competition  :  this  has  been  my  policy, 
in  a  business  of  whose  prosperity  you  are  the  best  judges.  I 
say  an  open-hand  and  free  competition  in  everything.  How 
shall  we  dispose  of  our  poor  ?  Shall  they  be  disposed  of  by 
private  arrangement — sold  out  to  favorites,  of  whose  respon 
sibility  we  know  nothing  ?  [Cries  of  no,  no,  no  !]  If  any 
body  who  is  responsible — and  now  he  is  attacked,  mark  you, 
I  propose  to  stand  behind  and  be  responsible  for  Mr.  Bufiuna 


SEVENOAKS.  ^ 

myself— can  do  the  work  cheaper  and  better  than  Mr.  Buffum, 
let  him  enter  at  once  upon  the  task.  But  let  the  competition 
be  free,  nothing  covered  up.  Let  us  have  clean  hands  in  this 
business,  if  nowhere  else.  If  we  cannot  have  impartial  deal 
ing,  where  the  interests  of  humanity  are  concerned,  we  are 
unworthy  of  the  trust  we  have  assumed.  I  give  the  Rev.  Mr, 
Snow  credit  for  motives  that  are  unimpeachable — unimpeacha 
ble,  sir.  I  do  not  think  him  capable  of  intentional  wrong, 
and  I  wish  to  ask  him,  here  and  now,  whether,  within  a 
recent  period,  he  has  visited  the  pauper  establishment  of 
Sevenoaks." 

Mr.  Snow  rose  and  acknowledged  that  it  was  a  long  time 
since  he  had  entered  Mr.  Buffum' s  estab]Jshment. 

"  I  thought  so.  He  has  listened  to  the  voice  of  rumor. 
Very  well.  I  have  to  say  that  1  have  been  there  recently,  and 
have  walked  through  the  establishment.  I  should  do  injustice 
to  myself,  and  fail  to  hint  to  the  reverend  gentleman,  and  all 
those  who  sympathize  with  him,  what  I  regard  as  one  of  their 
neglected  duties,  if  I  should  omit  to  mention  that  I  did  not 
go  empty-handed.  [Loud  cheers.]  It  is  easy  for  those  who 
neglect  their  own  duties  to  suspect  that  others  do  the  same. 
I  know  our  paupers  are  not  supported  in  luxury.  We  cannot 
afford  to  support  them  in  luxury ;  but  I  wash  my  hands  of  all 
responsibility  for  inhumanity  and  inattention  to  their  reason 
able  wants.  The  reverend  gentleman  himself  knows,  I  think, 
whether  any  man  ever  came  to  me  for  assistance  on  behalf  of 
any  humane  or  religious  object,  and  went  away  without  aid, 
i  cannot  consent  to  be  placed  in  a  position  that  reflects  upon 
my  benevolence,  and,  least  of  all,  by  the  reverend  gentleman 
who  has  reflected  upon  that  administration  of  public  charity 
which  has  had,  and  still  retains,  my  approval.  I  therefore 
move  that  the  usual  sum  be  appropriated  for  the  support  of 
the  poor,  and  that  at  the  close  of  this  meeting  the  care  of  the 
poor  for  the  ensuing  year  be  disposed  of  at  public  auction  to 
lie  lowest  bidder." 

Mr.  Snow  was  silent,  for  he  knew  that  he  was  impotent. 


3*  SEVENOAKS. 

Then  there  jumped  up  a  little  man  with  tumbled  hair, 
weazened  face,  and  the  general  look  of  a  broken-down  gen 
tleman,  who  was  recognized  by  the  moderator  as  "  Dr.  Rad- 
cliffe." 

"Mr.  Moderator/'  said  he,  in  a  screaming  voice,  "as  I 
am  the  medical  attendant  and  inspector  of  our  pauper  estab 
lishment,  it  becomes  proper  for  me,  in  seconding  the  motion 
of  Mr.  Belcher,  as  I  heartily  do,  to  say  a  few  words,  and  sub 
mit  my  report  for  the  past  year." 

Dr.  RadclifTe  was  armed  with  a  large  document,  and  the 
assembled  voters  of  Sevenoaks  were  getting  tired. 

"1  move,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "that,  as  the  hour  is  laU, 
the  reading  of  the  report  be  dispensed  with."  The  motio* 
was  seconded,  and  carried  nem.  con. 

The  Doctor  was  wounded  in  a  sensitive  spot,  and  was  dete. 
mined  not  to  be  put  down. 

"  I  may  at  least  say,"  he  went  on,  "  that  I  have  made  som* 
discoveries  during  the  past  year  that  ought  to  be  in  the  posj 
session  of  the  scientific  world.  It  takes  less  food  to  suppor* 
a  pauper  than  it  does  any  other  man,  and  I  believe  the  reasoi- 
is  that  he  hasn't  any  mind.  If  I  take  two  potatoes,  one  goet 
to  the  elaboration  of  mental  processes,  the  other  to  the  suj> 
port  of  the  physical  economy.  The  pauper  has  only  a  physi 
cal  economy,  and  he  needs  but  one  potato.  Anemia  is  the 
normal  condition  of  the  pauper.  He  breathes  comfortably 
an  atmosphere  which  would  give  a  healthy  man  asphyxia. 
Hearty  food  produces  inflammatory  diseases  and  a  general 
condition  of  hypertrophy.  The  character  of  the  diseases  at 
the  poor-house,  during  the  past  year,  has  been  typhoid.  I 
have  suggested  to  Mr.  Buffum  better  ventilation,  a  change 
from  farinaceous  to  nitrogenous  food  as  conducive  to  a  better 
condition  of  the  mucous  surfaces  and  a  more  perfect  oxyda* 
tion  of  the  vital  fluids.  Mr.  Buffum '* 

"  Oh,  git  out !"  shouted  a  voice  at  the  rear. 

"  Question  !  question  !"  called  a  dozen  voices. 

The  moderator  caught  a  wink  and  a  nod  from  Mr.  Belcher, 


SEVENOAKS.  33 

and  put  the  question,  amid  the  protests  of  Dr.  Radcliffe ;  and 
it  was  triumphantly  carried. 

And  now,  as  the  town-meeting  drops  out  of  this  story,  let 
us  leave  it,  and  leave  Mr.  Thomas  Buffum  at  its  close  to  under 
bid  all  contestants  for  the  privilege  of  feeding  the  paupers  of 
Sevenoaks  for  another 

2* 


CHAPTER   ill 

IN  WHICH    JIM  FENTON    IS   INTRODUCED   TO  THE    READER  AND 
INTRODUCES   HIMSELF  TO   MISS   BUTTERWORTH. 

Miss  BUTTERWORTH,  while  painfully  witnessing  the  defeat 
of  her  hopes  from  the  last  seat  in  the  hall,  was  conscious  of 
the  presence  at  her  side  of  a  very  singular-looking  personage, 
who  evidently  did  not  belong  in  Sevenoaks.  He  was  a  woods 
man,  who  had  been  attracted  to  the  hall  by  his  desire  to  wit 
ness  the  proceedings.  His  clothes,  originally  of  strong  mate 
rial,  were  patched ;  he  held  in  his  hand  a  fur  cap  without  a 
visor ;  and  a  rifle  leaned  on  the  bench  at  his  side.  She  had 
been  attracted  to  him  by  his  thoroughly  good-natured  face, 
his  noble,  muscular  figure,  and  certain  exclamations  that 
escaped  from  his  lips  during  the  speeches.  Finally,  he  turned 
to  her,  and  with  a  smile  so  broad  and  full  that  it  brought  an 
answer  to  her  own  face,  he  said  :  "  This  'ere  breathin'  is  worse 
aor  an  old  swamp.  I'm  goin',  and  good-bye  to  ye  !" 

Why  this  remark,  personally  addressed  to  her,  did  not 
offend  her,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  stranger,  she  did  not 
know ;  but  it  certainly  did  not  seem  impudent.  There  was 
something  so  simple  and  strong  and  manly  about  him,  as  he 
had  sat  there  by  her  side,  contrasted  with  the  baser  and  bet 
ter  dressed  men  before  her,  that  she  took  his  address  as  an 
honorable  courtesy. 

When  the  woodsman  went  out  upon  the  steps  of  the  town- 
hall,  to  get  a  breath,  he  found  there  such  an  assembly  of  boys 
as  usually  gathers  in  villages  on  the  smallest  public  occasion. 
Squarely  before  the  door  stood  Mr.  Belcher's  grays,  and  in 
Mr.  Belcher's  wagon  sat  Mr.  Belcher's  man,  Phipps.  Phipps 
34 


SEVENOAKS.  35 

was  making  the  most  of  his  position.  He  was  proud  of  his 
horses,  proud  of  his  clothes,  proud  of  the  whip  he  was  care 
lessly  snapping,  proud  of  belonging  to  Mr.  Belcher.  The 
boys  were  laughing  at  his  funny  remarks,  envying  him  his 
proud  eminence,  and  discussing  the  merits  of  the  horses  and 
the  various  points  of  the  attractive  establishment. 

As  the  stranger  appeared,  he  looked  down  upon  the  boys 
with  a  broad  smile,  which  attracted  them  at  once,  and  quite 
diverted  them  from  their  flattering  attentions  to  Phipps — a 
fact  quickly  perceived  by  the  latter,  and  as  quickly  revenged 
in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself  and  the  man  from  whom  he  had 
learned  it. 

"This  is  the  hippopotamus,  gentlemen,"  said  Phipps, 
"  fresh  from  his  native  woods.  He  sleeps  underneath  the 
banyan-tree,  and  lives  on  the  nuts  of  the  hick-o-ree,  and  pur 
sues  his  prey  with  his  tail  extended  upward  and  one  eye  open, 
and  has  been  known  wher  excited  by  hunger  to  eat  small 
boys,  spitting  out  their  boots  with  great  violence.  Keep  out 
of  his  way,  gentlemen  !  Keep  out  of  his  way,  and  observe  his 
wickedness  at  a  distance." 

Phipps' s  saucy  speech  was  received  with  a  great  roar  by  the 
boys,  who  were  surprised  to  notice  that  the  animal  himself 
was  not  only  not  disturbed,  but  very  much  amused  by  being 
shown  up  as  a  curiosity. 

"Well,  you're  a  new  sort  of  a  monkey,  anyway,"  said 
the  woodsman,  after  the  laugh  had  subsided.  "I  never 
hearn  one  talk  afore." 

"You  never  will  again,"  retorted  Phipps,  "if  you  give 
me  any  more  of  your  lip." 

The  woodsman  walked  quickly  toward  Phipps,  as  if  he 
were  about  to  pull  him  from  his  seat. 

Phipps  saw  the  motion,  started  the  horses,  and  was  out  of 
his  way  in  an  instant. 

The  boys  shouted  in  derision,  but  Phipps  did  not  come 
back,  and  the  stranger  was  the  hero.     They  gathered  around 
asking  questions,  all  of  which  he  good-naturedly  an- 


36  SEVENOAKS. 

swered.  He  seemed  to  be  pleased  with  their  society,  as  if  he 
were  only  a  big  boy  himself,  and  wanted  to  make  the  most 
of  the  limited  time  which  his  visit  to  the  town  afforded 
him. 

While  he  was  thus  standing  as  the  center  of  an  inquisitive 
and  admiring  group,  Miss  Butterworth  came  out  of  the  town- 
hall.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  her  eloquent  face  ex 
pressed  vexation  and  distress.  The  stranger  saw  the  look  and 
the  tears,  and,  leaving  the  boys,  he  approached  her  without 
the  slightest  awkwardness,  and  said : 

"  Has  anybody  teched  ye,  mum?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  Miss  Butterworth  answered. 

"  Has  anybody  spoke  ha'sh  to  ye  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir;"  and  Miss  Butterworth  pressed  on,  con- 
scious  that  in  that  kind  inquiry  there  breathed  as  genuine 
respect  and  sympathy  as  ever  had  reached  her  ears  in  the 
voice  of  a  man. 

"Because,"  said  the  man,  still  walking  along  at  her  side, 
"  I'm  spilin'  to  do  somethin'  for  somebody,  and  I  wouldn't 
mind  thrashin'  anybody  you'd  p'int  out." 

"  No,  you  can  do  nothing  for  me.  Nobody  can  do  any 
thing  in  this  town  for  anybody  until  Robert  Belcher  is  dead," 
said  Miss  Butterworth. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  like  to  kill  'im,"  responded  the  man, 
"  unless  it  was  an  accident  in  the  woods — a  great  ways  off— 
for  a  turkey  or  a  hedgehog — and  the  gun  half-cocked." 

The  little  tailoress  smiled  through  her  tears,  though  she  felt 
very  uneasy  at  being  observed  in  company  and  conversation 
with  the  rough-looking  stranger.  He  evidently  divined  the 
thoughts  which  possessed  her,  and  said,  as  if  only  the  men 
tion  of  his  name  would  make  him  an  acquaintance : 

"I'm  Jim  Fenton.  I  trap  for  a  livin'  up  in  Number  Nine, 
and  have  jest  brung  in  my  skins." 

"  My  name  is  Butterworth,"  she  responded  mechanically. 

"  I  know'd  it,"  he  replied.     "I  axed  the  boys." 

"Good-bye/'    he  said.     "Here's  the  store,  and  I  must 


SEVENOAKS.  37 

shoulder  my  sack  and  be  off.     I  don't  see  women  mucX^  but 
I'm  fond  of  'em,  and  they're  pretty  apt  to  like  me." 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  woman.  "  I  think  you're  the  best 
man  I've  seen  to-day;"  and  then,  as  if  she  had  said  more 
than  became  a  modest  woman,  she  added,  "  and  that  isn't 
saying  very  much." 

They  parted,  and  Jim  Fenton  stood  perfectly  still  in  the 
street  and  looked  at  her,  until  she  disappeared  around  a 
corner.  "That's  what  I  call  a  genuine  creetur',"  he  muttered 
to  himself  at  last,  "a  genuine  creetur'." 

Then  Jim  Fenton  went  into  the  store,  where  he  had  sold 
his  skins  and  bought  his  supplies,  and,  after  exchanging  a  few 
jokes  with  those  who  had  observed  his  interview  with  Miss 
Butterworth,  he  shouldered  his  sack  as  he  called  it,  and  started 
for  Number  Nine.  The  sack  was  a  contrivance  of  his  own, 
with  two  pouches  which  depended,  one  before  and  one 
behind,  from  his  broad  shoulders.  Taking  his  rifle  in  his 
hand,  he  bade  the  group  that  had  gathered  around  him  a 
hearty  good-bye,  and  started  on  his  way. 

The  afternoon  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  The  air  was  raw, 
and,  as  the  sun  went  toward  its  setting,  the  wind  came  on  to 
blow  from  the  north-west.  This  was  just  as  he  would  have  it 
It  gave  him  breath,  and  stimulated  the  vitality  that  was  ne 
cessary  to  him  in  the  performance  of  his  long  task.  A  tramp 
of  forty  miles  was  not  play,  even  to  him,  and  this  long  dis 
tance  was  to  be  accomplished  before  he  could  reach  the  boat 
that  would  bear  him  and  his  burden  into  the  woods. 

He  crossed  the  Branch  at  its  principal  bridge,  and  took  the 
same  path  up  the  hill  that  Robert  Belcher  had  traveled  in  the 
morning.  About  half-way  up  the  hill,  as  he  was  going  on 
with  the  stride  of  a  giant,  he  saw  a  little  boy  at  the  side  of 
the  road,  who  had  evidently  been  weeping.  He  was  thinly 
and  very  shabbily  clad,  and  was  shivering  with  cold.  The  great, 
healthy  heart  within  Jim  Fenton  was  touched  in  an  instant. 

"Well,  bub,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "how  fare  ye?  How  fare 
ye?  Eh?" 


38  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  lad. 

"  I  guess  not.  You're  as  blue  as  a  whetstone.  You  haven't 
got  as  much  on  you  as  a  picked  goose." 

"I  can't  help  it,  sir,"  and  the  boy  burst  into  tears. 

"  Well,  well,  I  didn't  mean  to  trouble  you,  boy.  Here, 
take  this  money,  and  buy  somethin'  to  make  you  happy. 
Don't  tell  your  dad  you've  got  it.  It's  yourn." 

The  boy  made  a  gesture  of  rejection,  and  said :  "I  don't 
wish  to  take  it,  sir." 

"  Now,  that's  good  !  Don't  wish  to  take  it  !  Why,  what's 
your  name?  You're  a  new  sort  o'  boy." 

"  My  name  is  Harry  Benedict." 

"  Harry  Benedict  ?     And  what's  your  pa's  name  ?  " 

"His  name  is  Paul  Benedict." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  is  in  the  poor-house." 

"And  you,  too?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  and  the  lad  found  expression  for  his  distress  in 
another  flow  of  tears. 

"  Well,  well,  well,  well !  If  that  ain't  the  strangest  thing  I 
ever  hearn  on !  Paul  Benedict,  of  Sevenoaks,  in  Tom  Buffum's 
Boardin' -house!" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  he's  very  crazy,  too." 

Jim  Fenton  set  his  rifle  against  a  rock  at  the  roadside,  slow 
ly  lifted  off  his  pack  and  placed  it  near  the  rifle,  and  then  sat 
down  on  a  stone  and  called  the  boy  to  him,  folding  him  in 
his  great  warm  arms  to  his  warm  breast. 

"Harry,  my  boy,"  said  Jim,  "your  pa  and  me  was  old 
friends.  We  have  hunted  together,  fished  together,  eat  together, 
and  slept  together  many's  the  day  and  night.  He  was  the  best 
shot  that  ever  come  into  the  woods.  I've  seed  him  hit  a  deer 
at  fifty  rod  many's  the  time,  and  he  used  to  bring  up  the  nicest 
tackle  for  fishin',  every  bit  of  it  made  with  his  own  hands. 
He  was  the  curisist  creetur'  I  ever  seed  in  my  life,  and  the  best ; 
and  I'd  do  more  fur  'im  nor  fur  any  livin'  live  man.  Oh,  I 
tell  ye,  we  used  to  have  high  old  times.  It.  was  wuth  livin'  a 


3* 

year  m  the  woods  jest  to  have  'im  with  me  for  a  fortnight.  J 
never  charged  'im  a  red  cent  fur  nothin',  and  I've  got  some 
of  his  old  tackle  now  that  he  give  me.  Him  an*  me  was  like 
brothers,  and  he  used  to  talk  about  religion,  and  tell  me  I 
ought  to  shift  over,  but  I  never  could  see  'zactly  what  I  ought 
to  shift  over  from,  or  shift  over  to;  but  I  let  'im  talk,  'cause 
he  liked  to.  He  used  to  go  out  behind  the  trees  nights,  and 
I  hearn  him  savin'  somethin' — somethin'  very  low,  as  I  am- 
talkin'  to  ye  now.  Well,  he  was  prayin' ;  that's  the  fact 
about  it,  Is' pose;  and  ye  know  I  felt  jest  as  safe  when  that 
man  was  round  !  I  don't  believe  I  could  a'  been  drownded 
when  he  was  in  the  woods  any  more'n  if  I'd  a'  been  a  mink. 
An'  Paul  Benedict  is  in  the  poor-house !  I  vow  I  don't 
'zactly  see  why  the  Lord  let  that  man  go  up  the  spout;  but 
perhaps  it'll  all  come  out  right.  Where's  your  ma,  boy  ?  " 

Harry  gave  a  great,  shuddering  gasp,  and,  answering  him 
that  she  was  dead,  gave  himself  up  to  another  fit  of  crying. 

"Oh,  now  don't!  now  don't!"  said  Jim  tenderly,  pressing 
the  distressed  lad  still  closer  to  his  heart.  "Don't  ye  do 
it;  it  don't  do  no  good.  It  jest  takes  the  spunk  all  out  o' 
ye.  Ma's  have  to  die  like  other  folks,  or  go  to  the  poor- 
house.  You  wouldn't  like  to  have  yer  ma  in  the  poor- 
house.  She's  all  right.  God  Almighty's  bound  to  take 
care  o*  her.  Now,  ye  jest  stop  that  sort  o'  thing.  She's 
better  off  with  him  nor  she  would  be  with  Tom  Buffum — any 
amount  better  off.  Doesn't  Tom  Buffum  treat  your  pa  well?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  he  doesn't  give  him  enough  to  eat,  and  he 
doesn't  let  him  have  things  in  his  room,  because  he  says  he'll 
hurt  himself,  or  break  them  all  to  pieces,  and  he  doesn't  give 
him  good  clothes,  nor  anything  to  cover  himself  up  with  when 
it's  cold." 

"Well,  boy,"  said  Jim,  his  great  frame  shaking  with  indigna 
tion,  "do  ye  want  to  know  what  I  think  of  Tom  Buffum?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"It  won't  do  fur  me  to  tell  ye,  "cause  I'm  rough,  but  if 
there's  anything  awful  bad — oh,  bad  as  anything  can  be,  in 


40  SEVEN  OAKS. 

Skeezacks — I  should    say  that  Tom  Buffum    was    an    old 
Skeezacks." 

Jim  Fenton  was  feeling  his  way. 

"I  should  say  he  was  an  infernal  old  Skeezacks.  That 
isn't  very  bad,  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know  sir,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Well,  a  d— d  rascal;  how's  that?" 

"My  father  never  used  such  words,"  replied  the  boy. 

"That's  right,  and  I  take  it  back.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
it,  but  unless  a  feller  has  got  some  sort  o'  religion  he  has  a 
mighty  hard  time  namin'  people  in  this  world.  What's  that?  " 

Jim  started  with  the  sound  in  his  ear  of  what  seemed  to  be 
a  cry  of  distress. 

"That's  one  of  the  crazy  people.    They  do  it  all  the  time. '" 

Then  Jim  thought  of  the  speeches  he  had  heard  in  the 
town-meeting,  and  recalled  the  distress  of  Miss  Butterworth, 
and  the  significance  of  all  the  scenes  he  had  so  recently 
witnessed. 

"Look  'ere,  boy;  can  ye  keep  right  'ere,"  tapping  him 
on  his  breast,  "whatsomever  I  tell  ye?  Can  you  keep  yer 
tongue  still? — hope  you'll  die  if  ye  don't?" 

There  was  something  in  these  questions  through  which  the 
intuitions  of  the  lad  saw  help,  both  for  his  father  and  him 
self.    Hope  strung  his  little  muscles  in  an  instant,  his  attitude 
became  alert,  and  he  replied : 

"I'll  never  say  anything  if  they  kill  me." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  I'm  goin'  to 
stay  to  the  poor-house  to-night,  if  they'll  keep  me,  an'  I 
guess  they  will;  and  I'm  goin'  to  see  yer  pa  too,  and  some 
how  you  and  he  must  be  got  out  of  this  place." 

The  boy  threw  his  arms  around  Jim's  neck,  and  kissed  him 
passionately,  again  and  again,  without  the  power,  apparently, 
to  give  any  other  expression  to  his  emotions. 

"Oh,  God!  don't,  boy!  That's  a  sort  o*  thing  I  can't 
Stand.  I  ain't  used  to  it." 

Jim  paused,  as  if  to  realize  how  sweet  it  was  to  hold  the 


SEVENOAKS.  41 

trusting  child  in  his  arms,  and  to  be  thus  caressed,  and  then 
said:  "Ye  must  be  mighty  keerful,  and  do  just  as  I  bid  ye. 
If  I  stay  to  the  poor-house  to-night,  I  shall  want  to  see  ye  in 
the  mornin',  and  I  shall  want  to  see  ye  alone.  Now  ye 
know  there's  a  big  stump  by  the  side  of  the  road,  half-way  up 
to  the  old  school-house.  " 

Harry  gave  his  assent. 

"Well,  I  want  ye  to  be  thar,  ahead  o'  me,  and  then  I'll 
tell  ye  jest  what  I'm  a  goin'  to  do,  and  jest  what  I  want  to 
have  ye  do." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Now  mind,  ye  mustn't  know  me  when  I'm  about  the 
house,  and  mustn't  tell  anybody  you've  seed  me,  and  I  mustn't 
know  you.  Now  ye  leave  all  the  rest  to  Jim  Fenton,  yer 
pa's  old  friend.  Don't  ye  begin  to  feel  a  little  better  now  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You  can  kiss  me  again,  if  ye  want  to.  I  didn't  mean 
to  choke  ye  off.  That  was  all  in  fun,  ye  know." 

Harry  kissed  him,  and  then  Jim  said:  "Now  make  track* 
for  yer  old  boardin' -house.  I'll  be  along  bimeby." 

The  boy  started  upon  a  brisk  run,  and  Jim  still  sat  upon  the 
stone  watching  him  until  he  disappeared  somewhere  among 
the  angles  of  the  tumble-down  buildings  that  constituted  th« 
establishment. 

"Well,  Jim  Fenton,"  he  said  to  himself,  "ye've  been 
ipilin'  fur  somethin'  to  do  fur  somebody.  I  guess  ye've  got 
it,  and  not  a  very  small  job  neither." 

Then  he  shouldered  his  pack,  took  up  his  rifle,  looked  up 
at  the  cloudy  and  blustering  sky,  and  pushed  up  the  hill,  still 
talking  to  himself,  and  saying  :  "A  little  boy  of  about  his 
haighth  and  bigness  ain't  a  bad  thing  to  take." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

fll  WHICH  JIM  FENTON  APPLIES  FOR  LODGINGS  AT  TOM  BUFFUM'S 
BOARDING-HOUSE,  AND  FINDS  HIS  OLD  FRIEND. 

As  Jim  walked  up  to  the  door  of  the  building  occupied 
Dy  Tom  Buffum's  family,  he  met  the  head  of  the  family 
coming  out;  and  as,  hitherto,  that  personage  has  escaped 
description,  it  will  be  well  for  the  reader  to  make  his  ac 
quaintance.  The  first  suggestion  conveyed  by  his  rotund 
figure  was,  that  however  scantily  he  furnished  his  boarders, 
be  never  stinted  himself  in  the  matter  of  food.  He  had 
the  sluggish,  clumsy  look  of  a  heavy  eater.  His  face  was 
large,  his  almost  colorless  eyes  were  small,  and,  if  one 
might  judge  by  the  general  expression  of  his  features,  his 
favorite  viand  was  pork.  Indeed,  if  the  swine  into  which  the 
devils  once  entered  had  left  any  descendants,  it  would  be 
legitimate  to  suppose  that  the  breed  still  thrived  in.  the  most 
respectable  sty  connected  with  his  establishment.  He  was 
always  hoarse,  and  spoke  either  in  a  whisper  or  a  wheeze. 
For  this,  or  for  some  other  reason  not  apparent,  he  was  a 
silent  man,  rarely  speaking  except  when  addressed  by  a  ques 
tion,  and  never  making  conversation  with  anybody.  From 
the  time  he  first  started  independently  in  the  world,  he  had 
been  in  some  public  office.  Men  with  dirty  work  to  do  had 
found  him  wonderfully  serviceable,  and,  by  ways  which  it 
would  be  hard  to  define  to  the  ordinary  mind,  he  had  so 
managed  that  every  town  and  county  office,  in  which  there 
was  any  money,  had  been  by  turns  in  his  hands. 

"Well,  Mr.  Buffum,  how  fare  ye?"  said  Jim,  walking 
42 


SEVENOAKS.  43 

heartily  up  to  him,  and  shaking  his  hand,  his  face  glowing 
with  good-nature. 

Mr.  Buffum's  attempt  to  respond  to  this  address  ended  in  a 
wheeze  and  a  cough. 

"  Have  ye  got  room  for  another  boarder  to-night  ?  Faith, 
I  never  expected  to  come  to  the  poor-house,  but  here  I  am, 
I'll  take  entertainment  for  man  or  beast.  Which  is  the  best, 
and  which  do  you  charge  the  most  for  ?  Somebody's  got  to 
keep  me  to-night,  and  ye' re  the  man  to  bid  low." 

Buffum  made  no  reply,  but  stooped  down,  took  a  sliver  from 
a  log,  and  began  to  pick  his  teeth.  Jim  watched  him  with 
luiet  amusement.  The  more  Mr.  Buffum  thought,  the  more 
furious  he  grew  wi*.h  his  toothpick. 

"  Pretty  tough  old  beef,  wasn't  it  ?"  said  Jim,  with  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"You  go  in  and  see  the  women,"  said  Mr.  Buffum,  in  a 
wheezy  whisper. 

This,  to  Jim,  was  equivalent  to  an  honorable  reception. 
He  had  no  doubt  of  his  ability  to  make  his  way  with  "  the 
women  "  who,  he  was  fully  aware,  had  been  watching  him  all 
the  time  from  the  window. 

To  the  women  of  Tom  Buffum's  household,  a  visitor  was  a 
godsend.  Socially,  they  had  lived  all  their  lives  in  a  state  of 
starvation.  They  knew  all  about  Jim  Fenton,  and  had  ex 
changed  many  a  saucy  word  with  him,  as  he  had  passed  their 
house  on  his  journeys  to  and  from  Sevenoaks. 

"If  you  can  take  up  with  what  we've  got,"  said  Mrs.  Buf 
fum  suggestively. 

"In  course,"  responded  Jim,  "an*  I  can  take  up  with 
what  ye  haven't  got." 

"Our  accommodations  is  very  crowded,"  said  Mrs.  Buffum. 

"  So  is  mine  to  home,"  responded  Jim.  "I  allers  sleep 
hangin'  on  a  gambrel,  between  two  slabs." 

While  Mr.  Tom  Buffum's  "women"  were  laughing,  Jim 
lifted  off  his  pack,  placed  his  rifle  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
and  sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire,  running  on  with  his 


44  SEVEN  OAKS. 

going  tongue  through  preposterous  stories,  and  sundry  flatter 
ing  allusions  to  the  beauty  and  attractiveness  of  the  women 
to  whose  hospitalities  he  had  committed  himself. 

After  supper,  to  which  he  did  full  justice,  the  family 
drew  around  the  evening  fire,  and  while  Mr.  Buffum  went,  or 
seemed  to  go,  to  sleep,  in  his  chair,  his  guest  did  his  best  to 
entertain  the  minor  members  of  the  group. 

"This  hollerin'  ye  have  here  reminds  me,"  said  Jim,  "of 
Number  Nine.  Ther's  some  pretty  tall  hollerin'  thar  nights. 
Do  ye  see  how  my  ha* r  sticks  up?  I  can't  keep  it  down. 
It  riz  one  night  jest  about  where  you  see  it  now,  and  it's 
mostly  been  thar  ever  sence.  Combin'  don't  do  no  good 
Taller  don't  do  no  good.  Nothin'  don't  do  no  good.  1 
s'pose  if  Mr.  Buffum,  a-snorin'  jest  as  hard  as  he  does  now, 
should  set  on  it  for  a  fortnight,  it  would  spring  right  up  like 
a  staddle,  with  a  b'ar  ketched  at  the  eend  of  it,  jest  as  quick  a? 
he  let  up  on  me."  At  this  there  was  a  slight  rumble  in  Mr. 
Buffum' s  throat. 

"Why,  what  made  it  rise  so?"  inquired  the  most  interested 
and  eldest  Miss  Buffum. 

"Now,  ain't  your  purty  eyes  wide  open?"  said  Jim. 

"You're  jest  fooling;  you  know  you  are,"  responded  Misa 
Buffum,  blushing. 

"Do  ye  see  the  ha'r  on  the  back  of  my  hand ?"  said  Jim, 
patting  one  of  those  ample  instruments  with  the  other.  "That 
stands  up  jest  as  it  does  on  my  head.  I'm  a  regular  hedge 
hog.  It  all  happened  then." 

"  Now,  Jim  Fenton,  you  shall  go  along  and  tell  your  story, 
and  not  keep  us  on  tenter-hooks  all  night,"  said  Miss  Buffura 
sharply. 

"  I  don't  want  to  scare  the  dear  little  heart  out  o'  ye,"  said 
Jim,  with  a  killing  look  of  his  eyes,  "  but  if  ye  will  hear  it, 
I  s'pose  I  must  tell  ye.  Ye  see  I'm  alone  purty  much  all  the 
time  up  thar.  I  don't  have  no  such  times  as  I'm  havin'  here 
to-night,  with  purty  gals  'round  me.  Well,  one  night  I  hearn 
a  loon,  or  thought  I  hearn  one.  It  sounded  'way  off  on  the 


SEVENOAKS. 


45 


lake,  and  bimeby  it  come  nigher,  and  then  I  thought  it  was  a 
painter,  but  it  didn't  sound  'zactly  like  a  painter.  My  dog 
Turk  he  don't  mind  such  things,  but  he  knowed  it  waVn't  a 
loon  and  wa'r'n't  a  painter.  So  he  got  up  and  went  to  the 
door,  and  then  the  yell  come  agin,  and  he  set  up  the  most 
un'arthly  howl  I  ever  hearn.  I  flung  one  o'  my  boots  at  'irn, 
but  he  didn't  mind  any  thinp  more  about  it  than  if  it  had 
been  a  feather.  Well,  ye  see,  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  the  skeeters 
was  purty  busy,  and  I  thought  I'd  git  up.  So  I  went  to  my 
cabin  door  and  flung  it  open.  The  moon  was  shinin',  and 
the  woods  was  still,  but  Turk,  he  rushed  out,  and  growled 
and  barked  like  mad.  Bimeby  he  got  tired,  and  come  back 
lookin*  kind  o'  skeered,  and  says  I:  'Ye* re  a  purty  dog, 
ain't  ye  ?'  Jest  then  I  hearn  the  thing  nigher,  and  I  begun 
to  hear  the  brush  crack.  I  knowed  I'd  go*  to  meet  some  new 
sort  of  a  creetur,  and  I  jest  stepped  back  and  took  my  rifle. 
When  I  stood  in  the  door  agin,  I  seen  somethin'  comin*.  It 
was  a  walkin'  on  two  legs  like  a  man,  and  it  was  a  man,  or 
somethin'  that  looked  like  one.  He  come  toward  the  cabin, 
and  stopped  about  three  rod  off.  He  had  long  white  hair 
that  looked  jest  like  silk  under  the  moon,  and  his  robes  was 
white,  and  he  had  somethin'  in  his  hand  that  shined  like  sil 
ver.  I  jest  drew  up  my  rifle,  and  says  I :  *  Whosomever  you 
be,  stop,  or  I'll  plug  ye.'  What  do  ye  s'pose  he  did  ?  He 
jest  took  that  shinin'  thing  and  swung  it  round  and  round  his 
head,  and  I  begun  to  feel  the  ha'r  start,  and  up  it  come  all 
over  me  Then  he  put  suthin'  to  his  mouth,  and  then  1 
knowed  it  was  a  trumpet,  and  he  jest  blowed  till  all  the  woods 
rung,  and  rung,  and  rung  agin,  and  I  hearn  it  comin'  back 
from  the  mountain,  louder  nor  it  was  itself.  And  then  says  I 
to  myself:  '  There's  another  one,  and  Jim  Fenton's  a  goner;' 
but  I  didn't  let  on  that  I  was  skeered,  and  says  I  to  him  • 
'  That's  a  good  deal  of  a  toot ;  who  be  ye  callin'  to  dinner  ?' 
And  says  he :  'It's  the  last  day  !  Come  to  jedgment !  I'm 
the  Angel  Gabr'el  !'  'Well,'  says  I,  'if  ye're  the  Angel 
Gabr'el,  cold  lead  won't  hurt  ye,  so  mind  yer  eyes !'  At 


46  SEVENOAKS. 

that  I  drew  a  bead  on  'im,  and  if  ye' 11  b'lieve  it,  I  knocked 
a  tin  horn  out  of  his  hands  and  picked  it  up  the  next  morn- 
in',  and  he  went  off  into  the  woods  like  a  streak  o'  lightnin'. 
But  my  ha'r  hain't  never  come  down." 

Jim  stroked  the  refractory  locks  toward  his  forehead  with 
his  huge  hand,  and  they  rose  behind  it  like  a  wheat-  field  be 
hind  a  summer  wind.  As  he  finished  the  manipulation,  Mr. 
Buffum  gave  symptoms  of  life.  Like  a  volcano  under  pre 
monitory  signs  of  an  eruption,  a  wheezy  chuckle  seemed  to 
begin  somewhere  in  the  region  of  his  boots,  and  rise,  growing 
more  and  more  audible,  until  it  burst  into  a  full  demonstration, 
that  was  half  laugh  and  half  cough. 

"Why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  father?"  exclaimed  Miss 
Buffum. 

The  truth  was  that  Mr.  Buffum  had  not  slept  at  all.  The 
simulation  of  sleep  had  been  indulged  in  simply  to  escape  the 
necessity  of  talking. 

"  It  was  old  Tilden,"  said  Mr.  Buffum,  and  then  went  off 
into  another  fit  of  coughing  and  laughing  that  nearly  strangled 
him. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  was  !"  seemed  to  come  simultaneously  from 
the  lips  of  the  mother  and  her  daughters. 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  again?"  inquired  Mr.  Buffum. 

"I  seen  'im  oncet,  in  the  spring,  I  s'pose,"  said  Jim, 
"  what  there  was  left  of  'im.  There  wasn't  much  left  but  an 
old  shirt  and  some  bones,  an'  I  guess  he  wa'n't  no  great 
shakes  of  an  angel.  I  buried  'im  where  I  found  'im,  and  said 
nothin'  to  nobody." 

"That's  right,"  wheezed  Mr.  Buffum.  "It's  just  as 
well." 

"The  truth  is,"  said  Mrs.  Buffum,  "that  folks  made  a 
great  fuss  about  his  gettin'  away  from  here  and  never  bein1 
found.  I  thought  'twas  a  good  riddance  myself,  but  people 
j;eem  to  think  that  these  crazy  critturs  are  just  as  much  conse 
quence  as  any  body,  when  they  don't  know  a  thing.  He  was 
always  arter  our  dinner  horn,  and  blowin',  and  thinkin'  he 


SEVENOAKS.  43 

was  the  Angel  Gabriel.  Well,  it's  a  comfort  to  know  he's 
buried,  and  isn't  no  more  expense." 

"I  sh'd  like  to  see  some  of  these  crazy  people,"  said  Jim. 
"  They  must  be  a  jolly  set.  My  ha'r  can't  stand  any  straighter 
nor  it  does  now,  and  when  you  feed  the  animals  in  the  morn- 
in',  I'd  kind  o'  like  to  go  round  with  ye." 

The  women  insisted  that  he  ought  not  to  do  it.  Only  those 
who  understood  them,  and  were  used  to  them,  ought  to  see 
them. 

"You  see,  we  can't  give  'em  much  furnitur',"  said  Mrs. 
Buffum.  "  They  break  it,  and  they  tear  their  beds  to  pieces, 
and  all  we  can  do  is  to  jest  keep  them  alive.  As  for  keepin1 
their  bodies  and  souls  together,  I  don't  s'pose  they've  got 
any  souls.  They  are  nothin'  but  animils,  as  you  say,  and  I 
don't  see  why  any  body  should  treat  an  animil  like  a  human 
bein.'  They  hav'n't  no  sense  of  what  you  do  for  'em." 

"Oh,  ye  needn't  be  afraid  o'  my  blowin'.  I  never  blowed 
about  old  Tilden,  as  you  call  'im,  an'  I  never  expect  to," 
said  Jim. 

"  That's  right,"  wheezed  Mr.  Buffum.     "It's  just  as  well." 

"Well,  I  s'pose  the  Doctor  '11  be  up  in  the  mornin',"  said 
Mrs.  Buffum,  "  and  we  shall  clean  up  a  little,  and  put  in  new 
straw,  and  p'r'aps  you  can  go  round  with  him  ?" 

Mr.  Buffum  nodded  his  absent,  and  after  an  evening  spent 
in  story-telling  and  chaffing,  Jim  went  to  bed  upon  the  shake 
down  in  an  upper  room  to  which  he  was  conducted. 

Long  before  he  was  on  his  feet  in  the  morning,  the  paupers 
of  the  establishment  had  been  fed,  and  things  had  been  put 
in  order  for  the  medical  inspector.  Soon  after  breakfast,  the 
Doctor's  crazy  little  £ig  was  seen  ascending  the  hill,  and  Mr. 
Buffum  and  Jim  were  at  the  door  when  he  drove  up.  Buffum 
took  the  Doctor  aside,  and  told  him  of  Jim's  desire  to  make 
the  rounds  with  him.  Nothing  could  have  delighted  the  little 
man  more  than  a  proposition  of  this  kind,  because  it  gave 
him  an  opportunity  to  talk.  Jim  had  measured  his  man  when 
he  heard  him  speak  the  previous  day,  and  as  they  crossed  the 


48  SEVEN  OAKS. 

road  together,  he  said:  "Doctor,  they  didn't  treat  ye  very 
well  down  there  yesterday.  I  said  to  myself;  'Jim  Fenton, 
what  would  ye  done  if  ye  had  knowed  as  much  as  thai 
doctor,  an'  had  worked  as  hard  as  he  had,  and  then  be'n  jest 
as  good  as  stomped  on  by  a  set  o'  fellows  that  didn't  know 
a  hole  in  the  ground  when  they  seen  it  ?'  and,  says  I,  an- 
awerin*  myself,  'ye'd  'a'  made  the  fur  fly,  and  spilt  blood.'  " 

"Ah,"  responded  the  Doctor,  "Violence  resteth  in  the 
bosom  of  fools." 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  'a*  rested  in  my  bosom  long,  I'd  'a* 
made  a  young  'arthquake  there  in  two  minutes." 

The  Doctor  smiled,  and  said  with  a  sigh  : 

"The  vulgar  mind  does  not  comprehend  science." 

"Now,  jest  tell  me  what  science  is,"  said  Jim.  "  I  hearn 
a  great  deal  about  science,  but  I  live  up  in  the  woods,  and  I 
can't  read  very  much,  and  ye  see  I  ain't  edicated,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  if  I  ever  found  a  man  as  knowed  what 
science  was,  I'd  ask  him." 

"  Science,  sir,  is  the  sum  of  organized  and  systematized 
knowledge,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

"Now,  that  seems  r^oumble,"  said  Jim,  "  but  what  is  it 
like  ?  What  do  they  co  with  it  ?  Can  a  feller  get  a  livin* 
by  it?" 

"  Not  in  Sevenoaks,"  replied  the  Doctor,  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

"Then,  what's  the  use  of  it  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Fenton,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  You'll 
excuse  me,  when  I  tell  you  that  you  have  not  arrived  at  that 
mental  altitude — that  intellectual  plane — " 

"  No,'*  said  Jim,  "  I  live  on  a  sort  of  a  medder." 

The  case  being  hopeless,  the  Doctor  went  on  and  opened 
the  door  into  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "the  insane  ward." 
As  Jim  put  his  head  into  the  door,  he  uttered  a  "phew !" 
and  then  said : 

"This  is  worser  nor  the  town  meetin'." 

The  moment  Jim's  eyes  beheld  the  misery  that  groaned  out 


SEVENOAKS.  49 

Its  days  and  nights  within  the  stingy  cells,  his  great  heart 
melted  with  pity.  For  the  first  moments,  his  disposition  to 
jest  passed  away,  and  all  his  soul  rose  up  in  indignation.  If 
profane  words  came  to  his  lips,  they  came  from  genuine  com 
miseration,  and  a  sense  of  the  outrage  that  had  been  com 
mitted  upon  those  who  had  been  stamped  with  the  image  of 
the  Almighty. 

"This  is  a  case  of  Shakspearean  madness,"  said  Dr.  Rad- 
cliffe,  pausing  before  the  barred  and  grated  cell  that  held  a 
half-nude  woman.  It  was  a  little  box  of  a  place,  with  a  rude 
bedstead  in  one  corner,  filthy  beyond  the  power  of  water  to 
cleanse.  The  occupant  sat  on  a  little  bench  in  another 
corner,  with  her  eyes  rolled  up  to  Jim's  in  a  tragic  expression, 
which  would  make  the  fortune  of  an  actress.  He  felt  of  hia 
hair,  impulsively. 

"How  are  ye  now?  How  do  ye  feel?"  inquired  Jim, 
tenderly. 

She  gave  him  no  answer,  but  glared  at  him  as  if  she  woul/j 
search  the  very  depths  of  his  heart. 

"  If  yell  look  t'other  way,  ye'll  obleege  me,"  said  Jim. 

But  the  woman  gazed  on,  speechless,  as  if  all  the  soul  that 
nad  left  her  brain  had  taken  up  its  residence  in  her  large, 
hlack  eyes. 

"  Is  she  tryin*  to  look  me  out  o'  countenance,  Doctor  ?" 
mquired  Jim,  "'cause,  if  she  is,  I'll  stand  here  and  let  'er  try 

on  ;  but  if  she  ain't  I'll  take  the  next  one." 

"  Oh,  she  doesn't  know  what  she's  about,  but  it's  a  very 
curious  form  of  insanity,  and  has  almost  a  romantic  interest 
attached  to  it  from  the  fact  that  it  did  not  escape  the  notice 
of  the  great  bard." 

'€I  notice,  myself,"  said  Jim,  "that  she's  grated  and 
barred." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  his  visitor  inquisitively,  but  the 
woodman's  face  was  as  innocent  as  that  of  a  child.  Then 
they  passed  on  to  the  next  cell,  and  there  they  found  another 
woman  sitting  quietly  in  the  corner,  among  the  straw. 

2 


5° 


SEVENOAKS. 


"How  fare  ye,  this  mornin'  ?"  inquired  Jim,  with  a  voice 
full  of  kindness. 

"I'm  just  on  the  verge  of  eternity,"  replied  the  woman. 

"Don't  ye  be  so  sure  o'  that,  now,"  responded  Jim. 
*•' Ye*re  good  for  ten  year  yit." 

"No,"  said  the  woman,   "  I  shall  die  in  a  minute.*' 

"  Does  she  mean  that?"  inquired  Jim,  turning  to  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,  and  she  has  been  just  on  the  verge  of  eternity  for 
fifteen  years,"  replied  the  Doctor,  coolly.  "That's  rather 
an  interesting  case,  too.  I've  given  it  a  good  deal  of  study. 
It's  hopeless,  of  course,  but  it's  a  marked  case,  and  full  of 
suggestion  to  a  scientific  man." 

"Isn't  it  a  pity,"  responded  Jim,  "that  she  isn't  a  scien 
tific  man  herself?  It  might  amuse  her,  you  know." 

The  Doctor  laughed,  and  led  him  on  to  the  next  cell,  and 
here  he  found  the  most  wretched  creature  he  had  ever  seen. 
He  greeted  her  as  he  had  greeted  the  others,  and  she  looked  up 
to  him  with  surprise,  raised  herself  from  the  straw,  and  said : 

"You  speak  like  a  Christian." 

The  tears  came  into  Jim's  eyes,  for  he  saw  in  that  little 
sentence,  the  cruelty  of  the  treatment  she  had  received. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  no  Christian,  as  I  knows  on,"  he  responded, 
"an*  I  don't  think  they're  very  plenty  in  these  parts;  but 
I'm  right  sorry  for  ye.  You  look  as  if  you  might  be  a  good 
sort  of  a  woman." 

"I  should  have  been  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  pigeons," 
said  the  woman.  "  They  flew  over  a  whole  day,  in  flocks, 
and  flocks,  and  cursed  the  world.  All  the  people  have  got 
the  plague,  and  they  don't  know  it.  My  children  all  died  of 
it,  and  went  to  hell.  Every  body  is  going  to  hell,  and  nothing 
can  save  them.  Old  Buffum'll  go  first.  Robert  Belcher'll  go 
next.  Dr.  Radcliffe  will  go  next." 

"  Look  here,  old  woman,  ye  jest  leave  me  out  of  that  cal- 
kerlatioii,"  said  Jim. 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  kill  me,  sir?"  said  th* 
woman. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  51 

"I  really  can't,  this  mornm',"  he  replied,  "for  I've  got  a 
good  ways  to  tramp  to-day ;  but  if  I  ever  want  to  kill  any 
body  I'll  come  round,  p'r'aps,  and  'commodate  ye." 

"Thank  you,"  she  responded  heartily. 

The  Doctor  turned  to  Jim,  and  said : 

"Do  you  see  that  hole  in  the  wall,  beyond  her  head? 
Well,  that  hole  was  made  by  Mr.  Buffum.  She  had  begged 
him  to  kill  her  so  often  that  he  thought  he  would  put  her  to 
the  test,  and  he  agreed  he  would  do  so.  So  he  set  her  up  by 
that  wall,  and  took  a  heavy  stick  from  the  wood-pile,  raised  it 
as  high  as  the  room  would  permit,  and  then  brought  it  down 
with  great  violence,  burying  the  end  of  the  bludgeon  in  the 
plastering.  I  suppose  he  came  within  three  inches  of  her 
head,  and  she  never  winked.  It  was  a  very  interesting  expe 
riment,  as  it  illustrated  the  genuineness  of  her  desire  for  death 
Otherwise  the  case  is  much  like  many  others." 

"Very  interestin',"  responded  Jim,  "very!  Didn't  yo\ 
never  think  of  makin'  her  so  easy  and  comfortable  that  she, 
wouldn't  want  any  body  to  kill  her?  I  sh'd  think  that  would 
be  an  interestin'  experiment." 

Now  the  Doctor  had  one  resort,  which,  among  the  people 
of  Sevenoaks,  was  infallible,  whenever  he  wished  to  check 
argumentation  on  any  subject  relating  to  his  profession.  Any 
man  who  undertook  to  argue  a  medical  question  with  him,  or 
make  a  suggestion  relating  to  medical  treatment,  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  flooring  at  once,  by  wisely  and  almost  pityingly 
shaking  his  head,  and  saying :  "  It's  very  evident  to  me,  sir, 
that  you've  not  received  a  medical  education."  So,  when  Jim 
suggested,  in  his  peculiar  way,  that  the  woman  ought  to  be 
treated  better,  the  Doctor  saw  the  point,  and  made  his  usual 
response. 

" Mr.  Fenton,"  said  he,  "excuse  me,  sir,  but  it's  very  evi 
dent  that  you've  not  had  a  medical  education." 

"There's  where  you're  weak,"  Jim  responded.  "I'm  a 
reg'lar  M.  D.,  three  C's,  double  X.,  two  I's.  That's  the  year 
I  was  born,  and  that's  my  perfession.  I  studied  with  an  Injun, 


52  SEVENOAKS. 

and  I  know  more  'arbs,  and  roots,  and  drawin'  leaves  than  any 
doctor  in  a  hundred  mile ;  and  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  ye, 
Doctor,  there's  my  hand." 

And  Jim  seized  the  Doctor's  hand,  and  gave  it  a  pressure 
which  raised  the  little  man  off  the  floor. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  with  eyes  equally  charged  with 
amusement  and  amazement.  He  never  had  been  met  in  that 
way  before,  and  was  not  inclined  to  leave  the  field  without  in 
•ome  way  convincing  Jim  of  his  own  superiority. 

"Mr.  Fen  ton,"  said  he,  "did  you  ever  see  a  medulla  ob- 
longata?" 

"Well,  I  seen  a  good  many  garters,"  replied  the  woods 
man,  "in  the  stores,  an'  I  guess  they  was  mostly  oblong." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  solar  plexus?  "  inquired  the  Doctor, 
severely. 

"  Dozens  of  'em.  I  allers  pick  a  few  in  the  fall,  but  I  don't 
make  much  use  of  'em." 

"  Perhaps  you've  seen  a  pineal  gland,"  suggested  the  dis 
gusted  Doctor. 

"I  make  'em,"  responded  Jim.  "I  whittle  'em  out  eve- 
nin's,  ye  know." 

"If  you  were  in  one  of  these  cells,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I 
should  think  you  were  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.'f 

At  this  moment  the  Doctor's  attention  was  called  to  a  few 
harmless  patients  who  thronged  toward  him  as  soon  as  they 
..earned  that  he  was  in  the  building,  begging  for  medicine  ; 
for  if  there  is  anything  that  a  pauper  takes  supreme  delight  in 
it  is  drugs.  Passing  along  with  them  to  a  little  lobby,  where 
he  could  inspect  them  more  conveniently,  he  left  Jim  behind, 
as  that  personage  did  not  prove  to  be  so  interesting  and  im 
pressible  as  he  had  hoped.  Jim  watched  him  as  he  moved 
away,  with  a  quiet  chuckle,  and  then  turned  to  pursue  his  in 
vestigations.  The  next  cell  he  encountered  held  the  man  he 
was  looking  for.  Sitting  in  the  straw,  talking  to  himself  or 
some  imaginary  companion,  he  saw  his  old  friend.  It  took 
bim  a  full  minute  to  realize  that  the  gentle  sportsman,  the 


SEVENOAKS.  53 

true  Christian,  the  delicate  man,  the  delightful  companion, 
was  there  before  him,  a  wreck — cast  out  from  among  his  fel 
lows,  confined  in  a  noisome  cell,  and  hopelessly  given  over  to 
his  vagrant  fancies  and  the  tender  mercies  of  Thomas  Buffum. 
When  the  memory  of  what  Paul  Benedict  had  been  to  him,  at 
one  period  of  his  life,  came  to  Jim,  with  the  full  realization 
of  his  present  misery  and  degradation,  the  strong  man  wept 
like  a  child.  He  drew  an  old  silk  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  blew  his  nose  as  if  it  had  been  a  trumpet,  and  then 
slipped  up  to  the  cell  and  said,  softly:  "Paul  Benedict,  give 
us  your  benediction." 

"Jim  !  "  said  the  man,  looking  up  quickly. 

"  Good  God  !  he  knows  me,"  said  Jim,  whimpering.  "  Yes, 
Mr.  Benedict,  I'm  the  same  rough  old  fellow.    How  fare  ye?** 

"I'm  miserable,"  replied  the  man. 

"Well,  ye  don't  look  as  ef  ye  felt  fust-rate.     How  did  ye 
git  in  here?  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  damned  when  I  died.     It's  all  right,  I  know; 
but  it's  terrible." 

"Why,  ye  don't  think  ye're  in  hell,  do  ye?"  inquired 
Jim. 

"  Don't  you  see?"  inquired  the  wretch,  looking  around  hiro. 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  see  !    I  guess  you're  right,"  said  Jim,   falling 
in  with  his  fancy. 

" But  where  did  you  come  from,  Jim?    I  never  heard  thai 
you  were  dead." 

"Yes;  I'm  jest  as  dead  as  you  be." 

"Well,  what  did  you  come  here  for?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  I'd  call  round,"  replied  Jim  carelessly. 

"Did  you  come  from  Abraham's  bosom?"  inquired  Mr. 
Benedict  eagerly. 

"Straight." 

"  I  can't  think  why  you  should  come  to  see  me,  into  suci 
a  place  as  this  !  "  said  Benedict,  wonderingly. 

"  Oh,  I  got  kind  o*  oneasy.     Don't  have  much  to  do  ovei 
there,  ye  know." 


54  SEVENOAKS. 

"  How  did  you  get  across  the  gulf?  " 

"I  jest  shoved  over  in  a  birch,  an*  ye  must  be  perlite 
enough  to  return  the  call,"  replied  Jim,  in  the  most  matter- 
of-course  manner  possible. 

Benedict  looked  down  upon  his  torn  and  wretched  clo 
thing,  and  then  turned  his  pitiful  eyes  up  to  Jim,  who  saw  the 
thoughts  that  were  passing  in  the  poor  man's  mind. 

"  Never  mind  your  clo'es,"  he  said.  "  I  dress  jest  the  same 
there  as  I  did  in  Number  Nine,  and  nobody  says  a  word.  The 
fact  is,  they  don't  mind  very  much  about  clo'es  there,  any 
way.  I'll  come  over  and  git  ye,  ye  know,  an'  interjuce  ye, 
ind  ye  shall  have  jest  as  good  a  time  as  Jim  Fenton  can  give  ye. ' ' 

"Shall  I  take  my  rifle  along?  "  inquired  Benedict. 

"Yes,  an'  plenty  of  amanition.  There  ain't  no  game  to 
speak  on — only  a  few  pa'tridge;  but  we  can  shoot  at  a  mark 
all  day,  ef  we  want  to." 

Benedict  tottered  to  his  feet  and  came  to  the  grated  door, 
with  his  eyes  all  alight  with  hope  and  expectation.  "  Jim, 
you  always  were  a  good  fellow,"  said  he,"  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  whisper,  "  I'll  show  you  my  improvements.  Belcher 
mustn't  get  hold  of  them.  He's  after  them.  I  hear  him 
round  nights,  but  he  shan't  have  them.  I've  got  a  new  tum 
bler,  and — " 

"  Well,  never  mind  now,"  replied  Jim.  "It'll  be  jest  as 
well  when  ye  come  over  to  spend  the  day  with  me.  Now  ye 
look  a  here !  Don't  you  say  nothin'  about  this  to  nobody. 
They'll  all  want  to  go,  and  we  can't  have  'em.  You  an'  I 
want  to  git  red  of  the  crowd,  ye  know.  We  allers  did.  So 
when  I  come  arterye,  jest  keep  mum,  and  we'll  have  a  high 
old  time." 

All  the  intellect  that  Benedict  could  exercise  was  summoned 
to  comprehend  this  injunction.  He  nodded  his  head ;  he  laid 
it  up  in  his  memory.  Hope  had  touched  him,  and  he  had 
won  at  least  a  degree  of  momentary  strength  and  steadiness 
from  her  gracious  finger. 

"  Now  jest  lay  down  an*  rest,  an*  keep  your  thoughts  to 


SEVEN  OAKS.  55 

Jrerself  till  I  come  agin.  Don't  tell  nobody  I've  be'n  here, 
and  don't  ask  leave  of  nobody.  I'll  settle  with  the  old  bos? 
if  he  makes  any  sort  of  a  row ;  and  ye  know  when  Jim  Fen- 
ton  says  he'll  stand  between  ye  and  all  harm  he  means  it,  an* 
nothin'  else." 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"  An*  when  I  come  here — most  likely  in  the  night — I'll 
bring  a  robe  to  put  on  ye,  and  we'll  go  out  still." 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"  Sure  you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"  Well,  good-bye.     Give  us  your  hand.     Here's  hopin'." 

Benedict  held  himself  up  by  the  slats  of  the  door,  while 
yim  went  along  to  rejoin  the  Doctor.  Outside  of  this  door 
was  still  a  solid  one,  which  had  been  thrown  wide  open  in 
the  morning  for  the  purpose  of  admitting  the  air.  In  this  door 
Jim  discovered  a  key,  which  he  quietly  placed  in  his  pocket, 
and  which  he  judged,  by  its  size,  was  fitted  to  the  lock  of  the 
inner  as  well  as  the  outer  door.  He  had  already  discovered 
that  the  door  by  which  he  entered  the  building  was  bolted 
upon  the  outside,  the  keeper  doubtless  supposing  that  no  one 
would  wish  to  enter  so  foul  a  place,  and  trusting  thus  to  keep 
ihe  inmates  in  durance. 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  Jim,  "this  sort  o*  thing  is  too  many 
for  me.  I  gi'en  it  up.  It's  very  interestin',  I  s'pose,  but  my 
head  begins  to  spin,  an'  it  seems  to  me  it's  gettin'  out  of  or 
der.  Do  ye  see  my  har,  Doctor  ?  ' '  said  he,  exposing  the  heavy 
shock  that  crowned  his  head. 

"  Yes,  I  see  it,"  replied  the  Doctor  tartly.  He  thought  he 
had  shaken  off  his  unpleasant  visitor,  and  his  return  disturbed 
him. 

"Well,  Doctor,  that  has  all  riz  sence  I  come  in  here." 

"Are  you  sure?"  inquired  the  Doctor,  mollified  in  the 
presence  of  a  fact  that  might  prove  to  be  of  scientific  interest. 

"I'd  jest  combed  it  when  you  come  this  mornin'.  D'ye 
tver  see  anythin'  like  that  ?  How  am  I  goin'  to  git  it  down  ?  " 


56  SEVEN  OAKS. 

1  Very  singular,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Yes,  an'  look  here  !  D'ye  see  the  har  on  the  back  o*  my 
hand  ?  That  stands  up  jest  the  same.  Why,  Doctor,  I  feel 
like  a  hedgehog  !  What  am  I  goin'  to  do  ?  " 

"Why,  this  is  really  very  interesting  !  "  said  the  Doctor, 
taking  out  his  note-book.  "  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"Jim  Fenton." 

"Age?" 

"Thirty  or  forty — somewhere  along  there." 

"  H'm !  "  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  writing  out  the  whole  re 
ply.  "Occupation?" 

"M.  D.,  three  C's,  double  X.,  two  IV 

"  H'm  !     What  do  you  do  ?" 

"Trap,  mostly." 

"Religious?" 

"  When  I'm  skeered." 

"Nativity?" 

"Which?" 

"  What  is  your  parentage  ?    Where  were  you  born  ?" 

"  Well,  my  father  was  an  Englishman,  my  mother  was  a 
Scotchman,  I  was  born  in  Ireland,  raised  in  Canady,  and 
have  lived  for  ten  year  in  Number  Nine." 

"  How  does  your  head  feel  now?" 

"  It  feels  as  if  every  har  was  a  pin.  Do  you  s'pose  it'll 
strike  in?" 

The  Doctor  looked  him  over  as  if  he  were  a  bullock,  and 
went  on  with  his  statistics:  "Weight,  about  two  hundred 
pounds;  height,  six  feet  two;  temperament,  sanguine-bilious." 

"  Some  time  when  you  are  in  Sevenoaks,"  said  the  Doctor, 
slipping  his  pencil  into  its  sheath  in  his  note-book,  and  put 
ting  his  book  in  his  pocket,  "come  and  see  me." 

"And  stay  all  night?"  inquired  Jim,  innocently. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  case  again,"  said  Dr.  Radcliffe,  nod 
ding.  "  I  shall  not  detain  you  long.  The  matter  has  a  certain 
scientific  interest." 

"  Well,  good-bye,   Doctor,"  said  Jim,  holding  down  his 


SEVENOAKS.  57 

Hair.  "  I'm  ott'  for  Number  Nine.  I'm  much  obleeged  for 
lettin*  me  go  round  with  ye ;  an'  I  never  want  to  go 
agin." 

Jim  went  out  into  the  pleasant  morning  air.  The  sun  had 
dispelled  the  light  frost  of  the  night,  the  sky  was  blue  over 
head,  and  the  blue-birds,  whose  first  spring  notes  were  as 
sweet  and  fresh  as  the  blossoms  of  the  arbutus,  were  caroling 
among  the  maples.  Far  away  to  the  north  he  could  see  the 
mountain  at  whose  foot  his  cabin  stood,  red  in  the  sunshine, 
save  where  in  the  deeper  gorges  the  snow  still  lingered. 
Sevenoaks  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  on  the  other  hand,  and 
he  could  see  the  people  passing  to  and  fro  along  its  streets, 
and,  perched  upon  the  hill-side  among  its  trees  and  gardens, 
the  paradise  that  wealth  had  built  for  Robert  Belcher.  The 
first  emotion  that  thrilled  him  as  he  emerged  from  the  shadows 
of  misery  and  mental  alienation  was  that  of  gratitude.  He 
filled  his  lungs  with  the  vitalizing  air,  but  expired  his  long 
breath  with  a  sigh. 

"What  bothers  me,"  said  Jim  to  himself,  "is,  that  the 
Lord  lets  one  set  of  people  that  is  happy,  make  it  so  thunderin' 
rough  for  another  set  of  people  that  is  onhappy.  An'  there's 
another  thing  that  bothers  me,"  he  said,  continuing  his  audi' 
ble  cogitations.  "  How  do  they  'xpect  a  feller  is  goin'  to  git 
well,  when  they  put  'im  where  a  well  feller' d  git  sick?  I  vow 
I  think  that  poor  old  creetur  that  wanted  me  to  kill  her  is 
straighter  in  her  brains  than  any  body  I  seen  on  the  lot.  I 
couldn't  live  there  a  week,  an'  if  I  was  a  hopeless  case,  an' 
know'd  it,  I'd  hang  myself  on  a  nail." 

Jim  saw  his  host  across  the  road,  and  went  over  to  him. 
Mr.  Buffum  had  had  a  hard  time  with  his  pipes  that  morning, 
and  was  hoarse  and  very  red  in  the  face. 

"  Jolly  lot  you've  got  over  there,"  said  Jim.  "If  I  had 
sech  a  family  as  them,  I'd  take  'em  'round  for  a  show,  and 
hire  Belcher's  man  to  do  the  talkin'.  '  Walk  up,  gentlemen, 
walk  up,  and  see  how  a  Christian  can  treat  a  feller  bein'. 
Here's  a  feller  that's  got  sense  enough  left  to  think  he's  IB 

3* 


58  SEVEN  OAKS. 

hell.    Observe  his  wickedness,  gentlemen,  and  don't  be  afraid 
to  use  your  handkerchers.'  ' 

As  Jim  talked,  he  found  he  was  getting  angry,  and  that  the 
refractory  hair  that  covered  his  poll  began  to  feel  hot.  It 
would  not  do  to  betray  his  feelings,  so  he  ended  his  sally  with 
SL  huge  laugh  that  had  about  as  much  music  and  heartiness  in 
it  as  the  caw  of  a  crow.  Buffum  joined  him  with  his  wheezy 
chuckle,  but  having  sense  enough  to  see  that  Jim  had  really 
been  pained,  he  explained  that  he  kept  his  paupers  as  well  as 
he  could  afford  to. 

"Oh,  I  know  it,"  said  Jim.  "If  there's  anything  wrong 
about  it,  it  don't  begin  with  you,  Buffum,  nor  it  don't  end 
with  you;  but  it  seems  a  little  rough  to  a  feller  like  me  to  see 
people  shut  up,  an'  in  the  dark,  when  there's  good  breathin* 
an'  any  amount  o'  sunshine  to  be  had,  free  gratis  for  nothin'." 

"Well,  they  don't  know  the  difference,"  said  Buffum. 

"Arter  a  while,  I  guess  they  don't,"  Jim  responded; 
"an',  now,  what's  the  damage  ?  for  I've  got  to  go  'long." 

"  I  sha'n't  charge  you  anything,"  whispered  Mr.  Buffum. 
"  You  hav'n't  said  anything  about  old  Tilden,  and  it's  just 
as  well." 

Jim  winked,  nodded,  and  indicated  that  he  not  only  un 
derstood  Mr.  Buffum,  but  would  act  upon  his  hint.  Then 
he  went  into  the  house,  bade  good-bye  to  Mr.  Buffum's 
•'women,"  kissed  his  hand  gallantly  to  the  elder  Miss  Buffum, 
who  declared,  in  revenge,  that  she  would  not  help  him  on 
with  his  pack,  although  she  had  intended  to  do  so,  and, 
after  having  gathered  his  burdens,  trudged  off  northward. 

From  the  time  he  entered  the  establishment  on  the  pre 
vious  evening,  he  had  not  caught  a  glimpse  of  Harry  Bene 
dict.  "He's  cute,"  said  Jim,  "an'  jest  the  little  chap  for 
this  business."  As  he  came  near  the  stump  over  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  behind  which  the  poor-house  buildings  disap 
peared,  he  saw  first  the  brim  of  an  old  hat,  then  one  eye,, 
then  an  eager,  laughing  face,  and  then  the  whole  trim  little 
figure.  The  lad  was  transformed.  Jim  thought  when  he  saw 


SEVENOAKS.  59 

him  first  that  he  was  a  pretty  boy,  but  there  was  something 
about  him  now  that  thrilled  the  woodsman  with  admiration. 

Jim  came  up  to  him  with:  "  Mornin,'  Hariy  !"  and  the 
mountain  that  shone  so  gloriously  in  the  light  before  him, 
was  not  more  sunny  than  Jim's  face.  He  sat  down  behind  the 
stump  without  removing  his  pack,  and  once  more  had  the 
little  fellow  in  his  arms. 

"  Harry,"  said  Jim,  "I've  had  ye  in  my  arms  all  night — 
a  little  live  thing — an'  I've  be' n  a  longin'  to  git  at  ye  agin. 
If  ye  want  to,  very  much,  you  can  put  yer  arms  round  my 
neck,  an'  hug  me  like  a  little  bar.  Thar,  that's  right,  that's 
right.  I  shall  feel  it  till  I  see  ye  agin.  Ye've  been  thinkin' 
'bout  what  I  telled  ye  last  night  ?" 

"Oh  yes  !"  responded  the  boy,  eagerly,  "all  the  time." 

"Well,  now,  do  you  know  the  days — Sunday,  Monday, 
Tuesday,  and  the  rest  of  'em?" 

"Yes,  sir,  all  of  them." 

"  Now,  remember,  to-day  is  Wednesday.  It  will  be  seven 
days  to  next  Wednesday,  then  Thursday  will  be  eight,  Friday, 
nine,  Saturday,  ten.  You  always  know  when  Saturday  comes, 
don't  ye?" 

"Yes,  because  it's  our  school  holiday,"  replied  Harry. 

"  Well,  then,  in  ten  days — that  is,  a  week  from  next  Satur 
day — I  shall  come  agin.  Saturday  night,  don't  ye  go  to 
bed.  Leastways,  ef  ye  do,  ye  must  git  out  of  the  house 
afore  ten  o'clock,  and  come  straight  to  this  old  stump.  Can 
ye  git  away,  an'  nobody  seen  ye?" 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,"  replied  the  boy.  "They  don't  mind 
anything  about  us.  I  could  stay  out  all  night,  and  they 
wouldn't  know  where  I  was." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  now.  Remember — be  jest  here 
with  all  the  clo'es  ye've  got,  at  ten  o'clock,  Saturday  night — • 
ten  days  off — cut  'em  in  a  stick  every  day — the  next  Saturday 
after  the  next  one,  an'  don't  git  mixed." 

The  boy  assured  him  that  he  should  make  no  mistake. 

"When  I  come,  I  sh'll  bring  a  hoss  and  wagin.     It'll  be  a 


6o  SEVEN  OAKS. 

stiddy  hoss,  and  I  sh'll  come  here  to  this  stump,  an"  stop  till 
I  seen  ye.  Then  ye '11  hold  the  hoss  till  I  go  an'  git  yei 
pa,  and  then  we'll  wopse  'im  up  in  some  blankits,  an'  make 
a  clean  streak  for  the  woods.  It'll  be  late  Sunday  mornin' 
afore  any  body  knows  he's  gone,  and  there  won't  be  no  peo 
ple  on  the  road  where  we  are  goin',  and  ef  we're  druv  into 
cover,  I  know  where  the  cover  is.  Jim  Fenton's  got  friends 
on  the  road,  and  they'll  be  mum  as  beetles.  Did  ye  ever 
seen  a  beetle,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  they  work  right  along  and  don't  say  nothin*  to 
nobody,  but  they  keep  workin' ;  an'  you  an'  me  has  got  to  be 
jest  like  beetles.  Remember  1  an'  now  git  back  to  Tom  Buf- 
fum's  the  best  way  ye  can." 

The  boy  reassured  Jim,  gave  him  a  kiss,  jumped  over  the 
fence,  and  crept  along  through  the  bushes  toward  the  house. 
Jim  watched  him,  wrapped  in  admiration. 

"  He's  got  the  ra-al  hunter  in  'im,  jest  like  his  father,  but 
there's  more  in  'im  nor  there  ever  was  in  his  father.  I  sh'd 
kinder  liked  to  'a'  knowed  his  ma,"  said  Jim,  as  he  took  up 
his  rifle  and  started  in  earnest  for  his  home. 

As  he  plodded  along  his  way,  he  thought  over  all  the  expe 
riences  of  the  morning. 

"Any  man,"  said  he  to  himself,  "who  can  string  thing* 
together  in  the  way  Benedict  did  this  mornin'  can  be  cured. 
Startin*  in  hell,  he  was  all  right,  an'  everything  reasomble. 
The  startin*  is  the  principal  p'int,  an'  if  I  can  git  'im  to  start 
from  Number  Nine,  I'll  fetch  'im  round.  He  never  was  so 
much  to  home  as  he  was  in  the  woods,  an'  when  I  git  'im 
thar,  and  git  'im  fishin'  and  huntin',  and  sleepin'  on  hemlock, 
an*  eatin'  venison  and  corn-dodgers,  it'll  come  to  'im  that 
he's  been  there  afore,  and  he'll  look  round  to  find  Abram,  an* 
he  won't  see  'im,  and  his  craze  '11  kind  o'  leak  out  of  'im  afore 
he  knows  it." 

Jim's  theory  was  his  own,  but  it  would  be  difficult  for  Dr 
Radcliffe,  and  all  his  fellow-devotees  of  science,  to  controvert 


SEVENOAKS.  61 

it.  It  contented  him,  at  least ;  and  full  of  plans  and  hopes, 
stimulated  by  the  thought  that  he  had  a  job  on  hand  that 
would  not  only  occupy  his  thoughts,  but  give  exercise  to  the 
benevolent  impulses  of  his  heart,  he  pressed  on,  the  miles  dis 
appearing  behind  him  and  shortening  before,  as  if  the  ground 
had  been  charmed. 

He  stopped  at  noon  at  a  settler's  lonely  house,  occupied  by 
Mike  Conlin,  a  friendly  Irishman.  Jim  took  the  man  aside 
and  related  his  plans.  Mike  entered  at  once  upon  the  project 
with  interest  and  sympathy,  and  Jim  knew  that  he  could  trust 
him  wholly.  It  was  arranged  that  Jim  should  return  to  Mike 
the  evening  before  the  proposed  descent  upon  Tom  Buffum's 
establishment,  and  sleep.  The  following  evening  Mike's  horse 
would  be  placed  at  Jim's  disposal,  and  he  and  the  Benedicts 
were  to  drive  through  during  the  night  to  the  point  on  the 
river  where  he  would  leave  his  boat.  Mike  was  to  find  his 
horse  there  and  take  him  home. 

Having  accomplished  his  business,  Jim  went  on,  and  before 
the  twilight  had  deepened  into  night,  he  found  himself  briskly 
paddling  up  the  stream,  and  at  ten  o'clock  he  had  drawn  his 
little  boat  up  the  beach,  and  embraced  Turk,  his  faithful  dog, 
whom  he  had  left,  not  only  to  take  care  of  his  cabin,  but  to 
provide  for  himself.  He  had  already  eaten  his  supper,  and 
five  minutes  after  he  entered  his  cabin  he  and  his  dog  were 
snoring  side  by  side  in  a  sleep  too  profound  to  be  disturbed, 
even  by  the  trumpet  of  old  Tilden. 


CHAPTER   V. 

IN  WHIG*    JIM  ENLARGES  HIS    ACCOMMODATIONS  AND  ADOPTS    « 
VIOLENT  METHOD   OF  SECURING  BOARDERS. 

WHEN  Jim  Fenton  waked  from  his  long  and  refreshing 
sleep,  after  his  weary  tramp  and  his  row  upon  the  river,  the 
sun  was  shining  brightly,  the  blue-birds  were  singing,  the  par 
tridges  were  drumming,  and  a  red  squirrel,  which  even  Turk 
would  not  disturb,  was  looking  for  provisions  in  his  cabin,  or 
eyeing  him  saucily  from  one  of  the  beams  over  his  head.  He 
lay  for  a  moment,  stretching  his  huge  limbs  and  rubbing  his 
eyes,  thinking  over  what  he  had  undertaken,  and  exclaiming 
at  last:  "Well,  Jim,  ye've  got  a  big  contrack,"  he  jumped 
up,  and,  striking  a  fire,  cooked  his  breakfast. 

His  first  work  was  to  make  an  addition  to  his  accommoda 
tions  for  lodgers,  and  he  set  about  it  in  thorough  earnest. 
Before  noon  he  had  stripped  bark  enough  from  the  trees  in 
his  vicinity  to  cover  a  building  as  large  as  his  own.  The 
question  with  him  was  whether  he  should  put  up  an  addition 
to  his  cabin,  or  hide  a  new  building  somewhere  behind  the 
trees  in  his  vicinity.  In  case  of  pursuit,  his  lodgers  would 
need  a  cover,  and  this  he  knew  he  could  not  give  them  in  his 
cabin ;  for  all  who  were  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  woods 
were  familiar  with  that  structure,  and  would  certainly  notice 
any  addition  to  it,  and  be  curious  about  it.  Twenty  rods 
away  there  was  a  thicket  of  hemlock,  and  by  removing  two 
or  three  trees  in  its  center,  he  could  successfully  hide  from 
any  but  the  most  inquisitive  observation  the  cabin  he  proposed 
to  erect.  His  conclusion  was  quickly  arrived  at,  and  before 
he  slept  that  night  the  trees  were  down,  the  frame  was  up,  and 
62 


SEVEN  OAKS.  63 

the  bark  was  gathered.  The  next  day  sufficed  to  make  the 
cabin  habitable ;  but  he  lingered  about  the  work  for  several 
days,  putting  up  various  appointments  of  convenience,  building 
a  broad  bed  of  hemlock  boughs,  so  deep  and  fragrant  and 
inviting,  that  he  wondered  he  had  never  undertaken  to  do  as 
much  for  himself  as  he  had  thus  gladly  done  for  others,  and 
making  sure  that  there  was  no  crevice  at  which  the  storms  of 
spring  and  summer  could  force  an  entrance. 

When  he  could  do  no  more,  he  looked  it  over  with  appro 
val  and  said  :  "  Thar  !  If  I'd  a  done  that  for  Miss  Butter- 
worth,  I  couldn't  'a'  done  better  nor  that."  Then  he  went 
back  to  his  cabin  muttering:  "I  wonder  what  she'd  'a'  said 
if  she'd  hearn  that  little  speech  o'  mine !  " 

What  remained  for  Jim  to  do  was  to  make  provision  to  feed 
his  boarders.  His  trusty  rifle  stood  in  the  corner  of  his 
cabin,  and  Jim  had  but  to  take  it  in  his  hand  to  excite  the 
expectations  of  his  dog,  and  to  receive  from  him,  in  language 
as  plain  as  an  eager  whine  and  a  wagging  tail  could  express, 
an  offer  of  assistance.  Before  night  there  hung  in  front  of 
his  cabin  a  buck,  dragged  with  difficulty  through  the  woods 
from  the  place  where  he  had  shot  him.  A  good  part  of  the 
following  day  was  spent  in  cutting  from  the  carcass  every 
ounce  of  flesh,  and  packing  it  into  pails,  to  be  stowed  in  a 
spring  whose  water,  summer  and  winter  alike,  was  almost  at 
the  freezing  point. 

"  He'll  need  a  good  deal  o'  lookin*  arter,  and  I  shan't  hunt 
much  the  fust  few  days,"  said  Jim  to  himself;  "  an'  as  for 
flour,  there's  a  sack  on't,  an'  as  for  pertaters,  we  shan't  want 
many  on  'em  till  they  come  agin,  an'  as  for  salt  pork,  there's 
a  whole  bar'l  buried,  an'  as  for  the  rest,  let  me  alone !  " 

Jim  had  put  off  the  removal  for  ten  days,  partly  to  get  time 
for  all  his  preparations,  and  partly  that  the  rapidly  advancing 
spring  might  give  him  warmer  weather  for  the  removal  of  a 
delicate  patient.  He  found,  however,  at  the  conclusion  of 
his  labors,  that  he  had  two  or  three  spare  days  on  his  hands. 
His  mind  was  too  busy  and  too  much  excited  by  his  enterprise 


64  SEVENOAKS. 

to  permit  him  to  engage  in  any  regular  employment,  and  he 
roamed  around  the  woods,  or  sat  whittling  in  the  sun,  or 
smoked,  or  thought  of  Miss  Butterworth.  It  was  strange  how, 
when  the  business  upon  his  hands  was  suspended,  he  went 
back  again  and  again,  to  his  brief  interview  with  that  little 
woman.  He  thought  of  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  of  her  sympathy 
with  the  poor,  of  her  smart  and  saucy  speech  when  he  parted 
with  her,  and  he  said  again  and  again  to  himself,  what  he  said 
on  that  occasion  :  "  she's  a  genuine  creetur  !  "  and  the  last 
time  he  said  it,  on  the  day  before  his  projected  expedition,  he 
added  :  "  an*  who  knows  !  " 

Then  a  bright  idea  seized  him,  and  taking  out  a  huge  jack- 
knife,  he  went  through  the  hemlocks  to  his  new  cabin,  and 
there  carved  into  the  slabs  of  bark  that  constituted  its  doorv 
the  words  "  Number  Ten."  This  was  the  crowning  grace  of 
that  interesting  structure.  He  looked  at  it  close,  and  then 
from  a  distance,  and  then  he  went  back  chuckling  to  his  cabinfc 
to  pass  his  night  in  dreams  of  fast  driving  before  the  fury  of 
all  Sevenoaks,  with  Phipps  and  his  gray  trotters  in  advance. 

Early  on  Friday  morning  preceding  his  proposed  descent 
upon  the  poor-house,  he  gave  his  orders  to  Turk. 

"I'm  goin'  away,  Turk,"  said  he.  "  I'm  goin  away 
agin.  Ye  was  a  good  dog  when  I  went  away  afore,  and  y* 
berhaved  a  good  deal  more  like  a  Christian  nor  a  Turk. 
Look  out  for  this  'ere  cabin,  and  look  out  for  yerself.  I'm  a 
goin'  to  bring  back  a  sick  man,  an'  a  little  feller  to  play  with 
ye.  Now,  ole  feller,  won't  that  be  jolly?  Ye  must'n't  make 
no  noise  when  I  come — understand?" 

Turk  wagged  his  tail  in  assent,  and  Jim  departed,  believing 
that  his  dog  had  understood  every  word  as  completely  as  if  he 
were  a  man.  "  Good-bye — here's  hopin',"  said  Jim,  waving 
his  hand  to  Turk  as  he  pushed  his  boat  from  the  bank,  and 
disappeared  down  the  river.  The  dog  watched  him  until  he 
passed  from  sight,  and  then  went  back  to  the  cabin  to  mope 
away  the  period  of  his  master's  absence. 

Jim  sat  in  the  stern  of  his  little  boat,  guiding  and  propelling 


SEVENOAKS.  65 

it  with  his  paddle.  Flocks  of  ducks  rose  before  him,  and 
swashed  down  with  a  fluttering  ricochet  into  the  water  again, 
beyond  the  shot  of  his  rifle.  A  fish-hawk,  perched  above  his 
last  year's  nest,  sat  on  a  dead  limb  and  watched  him  as  he 
glided  by.  A  blue  heron  rose  among  the  reeds,  looked  at 
him  quietly,  and  then  hid  behind  a  tree.  A  muskrat  swam 
shoreward  from  his  track,  with  only  his  nose  above  water. 
A  deer,  feeding  among  the  lily-pads,  looked  up,  snorted,  and 
then  wheeled  and  plunged  into  the  woods.  All  these  things 
he  saw,  but  they  made  no  more  impression  upon  his  memory 
than  is  left  upon  the  canvas  by  the  projected  images  of  a  magic- 
lantern.  His  mind  was  occupied  by  his  scheme,  which  had 
never  seemed  so  serious  a  matter  as  when  he  had  started  upon 
its  fulfilment.  AH  the  possibilities  of  immediate  detection 
and  efficient  pursuit  presented  themselves  to  him.  He  had  no 
respect  for  Thomas  Buffum,  yet  there  was  the  thought  that  he 
was  taking  away  from  him  one  cf  the  sources  of  his  income. 
He  would  not  like  to  have  Buffum  suppose  that  he  could  be 
guilty  of  a  mean  act,  or  capable  of  making  an  ungrateful 
return  for  hospitality.  Still  he  did  not  doubt  his  own  mo 
tives,  or  his  ability  to  do  good  to  Paul  Benedict  and  his 
boy. 

It  was  nearly  ten  miles  from  Jim's  cabin,  down  the  winding 
river,  to  the  point  where  he  was  to  hide  his  boat,  and  take  to 
the  road  which  would  lead  him  to  the  house  of  Mike  Conlin, 
half  way  to  Sevenoaks.  Remembering  before  he  started  that 
the  blind  cart-road  over  which  he  must  bring  his  patient  was 
obstructed  at  various  points  by  fallen  trees,  he  brought  along 
his  axe,  and  found  himself  obliged  to  spend  the  whole  day  on 
his  walk,  and  in  clearing  the  road  for  the  passage  of  a  wagon. 
It  was  six  o'clock  before  he  reached  Mike's  house,  the  outer 
most  post  of  the  "settlement,"  which  embraced  in  its  defini 
tion  the  presence  of  women  and  children. 

"  Be  gorry,"  said  Mike,  who  had  long  been  looking  for  him, 
*f  I  was  afeared  ye'd  gi'en  it  up.  The  old  horse  is  ready  this 
two  hours.  I've  took  more  nor  three  quarts  o'  dander  out  iv 


66  SEVEN  OAKS. 

'is  hide,  and  gi'en  'im  four  quarts  o'  water  and  a  pail  iv  oats, 
an'  he'll  go." 

Mike  nodded  his  head  as  if  he  were  profoundly  sure  of  it. 
Jim  had  used  horses  in  his  life,  in  the  old  days  of  lumbering 
and  logging,  and  was  quite  at  home  with  them.  He  had  had 
many  a  drive  with  Mike,  and  knew  the  animal  he  would  be 
required  to  handle — a  large,  hardy,  raw-boned  creature,  that 
had  endured  much  in  Mike's  hands,  and  was  quite  equal  to 
the  present  emergency. 

As  soon  as  Jim  had  eaten  his  supper,  and  Mike's  wife  had 
put  up  for  him  food  enough  to  last  him  and  such  accessions 
to  his  party  as  he  expected  to  secure  during  the  night,  and 
supplied  him  abundantly  with  wrappings,  he  went  to  the  sta 
ble,  mounted  the  low,  strong  wagon  before  which  Mike  had 
placed  the  horse,  and  with  a  hearty  "good  luck  to  ye  !"  from 
the  Irishman  ringing  in  his  ears,  started  on  the  road  to  Seven- 
oaks.  This  portion  of  the  way  was  easy.  The  road  was  worn 
somewhat,  and  moderately  well  kept ;  and  there  was  nothing 
to  interfere  with  the  steady  jog  which  measured  the  distance 
at  the  rate  of  six  miles  an  hour.  For  three  steady  hours  he 
went  on,  the  horse  no  more  worried  than  if  he  had  been 
standing  in  the  stable.  At  nine  o'clock  the  lights  in  the  far 
mers'  cottages  by  the  wayside  were  extinguished,  and  the 
families  they  held  were  in  bed.  Then  the  road  began  to  grow 
dim,  and  the  sky  to  become  dark.  The  fickle  spring  weather 
gave  promise  of  rain.  Jim  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the 
exposure  to  which,  in  a  shower,  his  delicate  friend  would  be 
subjected,  but  thought  that  if  he  could  but  get  him  to  the 
wagon,  and  cover  him  well  before  its  onset,  he  could  shield 
him  from  harm. 

The  town  clock  was  striking  ten  as  he  drove  up  to  the  stump 
where  he  was  to  meet  Benedict's  boy.  He  stopped  and  whis 
tled.  A  whistle  came  back  in  reply,  and  a  dark  little  object 
crept  out  from  behind  the  stump,  and  came  up  to  the 
wagon. 

"  Harry,  how's  your  pa?  "  said  Jim. 


SEVENOAKS.  67 

"  He's  been  very  bad  to-day,'*  said  Harry.  "  He  says  he's 
going  to  Abraham's  bosom  on  a  visit,  and  he's  been  walking 
around  in  his  room,  and  wondering  why  you  don't  come  for 
him." 

"  Who  did  he  say  that  to  ?  "  inquired  Jim. 

"  To  me,"  replied  the  boy.  "And  he  told  me  not  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Buffum  about  it." 

Jim  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  saying  "All  right !"  he 
leaped  from  the  wagon.  Then  taking  out  a  heavy  blanket,  he 
said: 

"  Now,  Harry,  you  jest  stand  by  the  old  feller's  head  till 
I  git  back  to  ye.  He's  out  o'  the  road,  an'  ye  needn't  stir  if 
any  body  comes  along." 

Harry  went  up  to  the  old  horse,  patted  his  nose  and  his 
breast,  and  told  him  he  was  good.  The  creature  seemed  to 
understand  it,  and  gave  him  no  trouble.  Jim  then  stalked  off 
noiselessly  into  the  darkness,  and  the  boy  waited  with  a 
trembling  and  expectant  heart. 

Jim  reached  the  poor-house,  and  stood  still  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  between  the  two  establishments.  The  lights  in 
both  had  been  extinguished,  and  stillness  reigned  in  that  por 
tion  occupied  by  Thomas  Buffum  and  his  family.  The  dark 
ness  was  so  great  that  Jim  could  almost  feel  it.  No  lights 
were  visible  except  in  the  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and 
these  were  distant  and  feeble,  ^hrough  an  open  window— 
left  open  that  the  asthmatic  keeper  of  the  establishment 
might  be  supplied  with  breath — he  heard  a  stertorous  snore. 
On  the  other  side  matters  were  not  so  silent.  There  were 
groans,  and  yells,  and  gabble  from  the  reeking  and  sleepless 
patients,  who  had  been  penned  up  for  the  long  and  terrible 
night.  Concluding  that  every  thing  was  as  safe  for  his  opera 
tions  as  it  would  become  at  any  time,  he  slowly  felt  his  way  to 
the  door  of  the  ward  which  held  Paul  Benedict,  and  found  it 
fastened  on  the  outside,  as  he  had  anticipated.  Lifting  the 
bar  from  the  iron  arms  that  held  it,  and  pushing  back  the 
bolt,  he  silently  opened  the  door.  Whether  the  darkness  with- 


68  SEVEN  OAKS. 

in  was  greater  than  that  without,  or  whether  the  preternaturally 
quickened  ears  of  the  patients  detected  the  manipulations  of 
the  fastenings,  he  did  not  know,  but  he  was  conscious  at  once 
that  the  tumult  within  was  hushed.  It  was  apparent  that  they 
had  been  visited  in  the  night  before,  and  bthat  the  accustomed 
intruder  had  come  on  no  gentle  errand.  There  was  not  a 
sound  as  Jim  felt  his  way  along  from  stall  to  stall,  sickened 
almost  to  retching  by  the  insufferable  stench  that  reached  his 
nostrils  and  poisoned  every  inspiration. 

On  the  morning  of  his  previous  visit  he  had  taken  all  the 
bearings  with  reference  to  an  expedition  in  the  darkness,  and 
so,  feeling  his  way  along  the  hall,  he  had  little  difficulty  in 
finding  the  cell  in  which  he  had  left  his  old  friend. 

Jim  tried  the  door,  but  found  it  locked.  His  great  fea? 
was  that  the  lock  would  be  changed,  but  it  had  not  beer 
meddled  with,  and  had  either  been  furnished  with  a  new  key, 
or  had  been  locked  with  a  skeleton.  He  slipped  the  stoler 
key  in,  and  the  bolt  slid  back.  Opening  the  outer  door,  h* 
tried  the  inner,  but  the  key  did  not  fit  the  lock.  Here  was  f 
difficulty  not  entirely  unexpected,  but  seeming  to  be  insur 
mountable.  He  quietly  went  back  to  the  door  of  entrance, 
and  as  quietly  closed  it,  that  no  sound  of  violence  might 
reach  and  wake  the  inmates  of  the  house  across  the  road. 
Then  he  returned,  and  whispered  in  a  low  voice  to  the  inmate: 

"Paul  Benedict,  give  us  your  benediction." 

"Jim,"  responded  the  man  in  a  whisper,  so  light  that  it 
could  reach  no  ear  but  his  own. 

"  Don't  make  no  noise,  not  even  if  I  sh'd  make  consid'a* 
ble,"  said  Jim. 

Then,  grasping  the  bars  with  both  hands,  he  gave  the  door 
a  sudden  pull,  into  which  he  put  all  the  might  of  his  huge 
frame.  A  thousand  pounds  would  not  have  measured  it,  and 
the  door  yielded,  not  at  the  bolt,  but  at  the  hinges.  Screws 
deeply  imbedded  were  pulled  out  bodily.  A  second  lighter 
wrench  completed  the  task,  and  the  door  was  noiselessly  set 
,  though  Jim  was  trembling  in  every  muscle. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  69 

Benedict  stood  at  the  door. 

"Here's  the  robe  that  Abram  sent  ye,"  said  Jim,  throwing 
over  the  poor  man's  shoulders  an  ample  blanket;  and  putting 
one  of  his  large  arms  around  him,  he  led  him  shuffling  out 
of  the  hall,  and  shut  and  bolted  the  door. 

He  had  no  sooner  done  this,  than  the  bedlam  inside  broke 
loose.  There  were  yells,  and  howls,  and  curses,  but  Jim  did 
not  stop  for  these.  Dizzied  with  his  effort,  enveloped  in  thick 
darkness,  and  the  wind  which  preceded  the  approaching 
shower  blowing  a  fierce  gale,  he  was  obliged  to  stop  a  moment 
to  make  sure  that  he  was  walking  in  the  right  direction.  He 
saw  the  lights  of  the  village,  and,  finding  the  road,  managed 
to  keep  on  it  until  he  reached  the  horse,  that  had  become 
uneasy  under  the  premonitory  tumult  of  the  storm.  Lifting 
Benedict  into  the  wagon  as  if  he  had  been  a  child,  he  wrapped 
him  warmly,  and  put  the  boy  in  behind  him,  to  kneel  and  see 
that  his  father  did  not  fall  out.  Then  he  turned  the  horse 
around,  and  started  toward  Number  Nine.  The  horse  knew 
the  road,  and  was  furnished  with  keener  vision  than  the  man 
who  drove  him.  Jim  was  aware  of  this,  and  letting  the  reins 
lie  loose  upon  his  back,  the  animal  struck  into  a  long,  swing 
ing  trot,  in  prospect  of  home  and  another  "pail  iv  oats." 

They  had  not  gone  a  mile  when  the  gathering  tempest  came 
down  upon  them.  It  rained  in  torrents,  the  lightning  illumi 
nated  the  whole  region  again  and  again,  and  the  thunder 
cracked,  and  boomed,  and  rolled  off  among  the  woods  and 
hills,  as  if  the  day  of  doom  had  come. 

The  war  of  the  elements  harmonized  strangely  with  the 
weird  fancies  of  the  weak  man  who  sat  at  Jim's  side.  He 
rode  in  perfect  silence  for  miles.  At  last  the  wind  went 
down,  and  the  rain  settled  to  a  steady  fall. 

"They  were  pretty  angry  about  my  going,"  said  he,  feebly. 

"Yes,"  said  Jim,  "  they  behaved  purty  car'less,  but  I'm 
too  many  for  *em." 

"Does  Father  Abraham  know  I'm  coming?"  inquired 
Benedict.  "  Does  he  expect  me  to-night  ?" 


70  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Jim,  "an'  he'd  'a'  sent  afore,  but  he's 
jest  wore  out  with  company.  He's  a  mighty  good-natered 
man,  an'  I  tell  'im  they  take  the  advantage  of  'im.  But  I've 
posted  'im  'bout  ye,  and  ye're  all  right." 

"  Is  it  very  far  to  the  gulf?"  inquired  Benedict. 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  deal  of  a  drive,  but  when  ye  git  there, 
ye  can  jest  lay  right  down  in  the  boat,  an'  go  to  sleep.  I'll 
wake  ye  up,  ye  know,  when  we  run  in." 

The  miles  slid  behind  into  the  darkness,  and,  at  last,  the 
rain  subsiding  somewhat,  Jim  stopped,  partly  to  rest  his 
smoking  horse,  and  partly  to  feed  his  half-famished  com 
panions.  Benedict  ate  mechanically  the  food  that  Jim  fished 
out  of  the  basket  with  a  careful  hand,  and  the  boy  ate  as  only 
boys  can  eat.  Jim  himself  was  hungry,  and  nearly  finished 
what  they  left. 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  they  descried  Mike  Con- 
lin's  light,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  reeking  horse  and  the 
drenched  inmates  of  the  wagon  drove  up  to  the  door.  Mike 
was  waiting  to  receive  them. 

"  Mike,  this  is  my  particular  friend,  Benedict.  Take  'im 
in,  an'  dry  'im.  An'  this  is  'is  boy.  Toast  'im  both  sides — 
brown." 

A  large,  pleasant  fire  was  blazing  on  Mike's  humble  hearth, 
and  with  sundry  cheerful  remarks  he  placed  his  guests  before 
it,  relieving  them  of  their  soaked  wrappings.  Then  he  went 
to  the  stable,  and  fed  and  groomed  his  horse,  and  returned 
eagerly,  to  chat  with  Jim,  who  sat  steaming  before  the  fire, 
as  if  he  had  just  been  lifted  from  a  hot  bath. 

"  What  place  is  this,  Jim?"  said  Mr.  Benedict. 

"This  is  the  half-way  house,"  responded  that  personage, 
Irithout  looking  up. 

"  Why,  this  is  purgatory,  isn't  it?"  inquired  Benedict. 

"Yes,  Mike  is  a  Catholic,  an'  all  his  folks;  an'  he's  got  to 
stay  here  a  good  while,  an'  he's  jest  settled  down  an'  gone  to 
housekeepin'." 

"  Is  it  far  to  the  gulf,  now?" 


SEVENOAKS.  7, 

''Twenty  mile,  and  the  road  is  rougher  nor  a — " 

"Ah,  it's  no  twinty  mile,"  responded  Mike,  "an'  the 
road  is  jist  lovely — jist  lovely;  an'  afore  ye  start  I'm  goin'  to 
give  ye  a  drap  that  '11  make  ye  think  so." 

They  sat  a  whole  hour  before  the  fire,  and  then  Mike  mixed 
the  draught  he  had  promised  to  the  poor  patient.  It  was  not 
a  heavy  one,  but,  for  the  time,  it  lifted  the  man  so  far  out  of 
his  weakness  that  he  could  sleep,  and  the  moment  his  brain 
felt  the  stimulus,  he  dropped  into  a  slumber  so  profound  that 
when  the  time  of  departure  came  he  could  not  be  awakened. 
As  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  a  bed  was  procured  from  a 
spare  chamber,  with  pillows ;  the  wagon  was  brought  to  the 
l.oor,  and  the  man  was  carried  out  as  unconscious  as  if  he 
were  in  his  last  slumber,  and  tenderly  put  to  bed  in  the  wagon. 
Jim  declined  the  dram  that  Mike  urged  upon  him,  for  he  had 
need  of  all  his  wits,  and  slowly  walked  the  horse  away  on  the 
road  to  his  boat.  If  Benedict  had  been  wide  awake  and  well, 
he  could  not  have  traveled  the  road  safely  faster  than  a  walk ; 
and  the  sleep,  and  the  bed  which  it  rendered  necessary,  be 
came  the  happiest  accidents  of  the  journey. 

For  two  long  hours  the  horse  plodded  along  the  stony  and  un 
even  road,  and  then  the  light  began  to  redden  in  the  east,  and 
Jim  could  see  the  road  sufficiently  to  increase  his  speed  with 
safety.  It  was  not  until  long  after  the  sun  had  risen  that  Bene 
dict  awoke,  and  found  himself  too  weak  to  rise.  Jim  gave 
him  more  food,  answered  his  anxious  inquiries  in  his  own 
way,  and  managed  to  keep  him  upon  his  bed,  from  which  he 
constantly  tried  to  rise  in  response  to  his  wandering  impulses. 
It  was  nearly  noon  when  they  found  themselves  at  the  river ; 
and  the  preparations  for  embarkation  were  quickly  made.  The 
horse  was  tied  and  fed,  the  wagon  unfastened,  and  the  whole 
establishment  was  left  for  Mike  to  reclaim,  according  to  the 
arrangement  that  Jim  had  made  with  him. 

The  woodsman  saw  that  his  patient  would  not  be  able  to 
sit,  and  so  felt  himself  compelled  to  take  along  the  bed.  Ar 
ranging  this  with  the  pillows  in  the  bow  of  his  boat,  and 


is  SEVEN  OAKS. 

placing  Benedict  upon  it,  with  his  boy  at  his  feet,  he  shoved 
off,  and  started  up  the  stream. 

After  running  along  against  the  current  for  a  mile,  Bene 
dict  having  quietly  rested  meantime,  looked  up  and  said 
weakly : 

"Jim,  is  this  the  gulf ?  " 

"  Yes,"  responded  Jim,  cheerfully.  "This  is  the  gulf,  and 
a  purty  place  'tis  too.  I've  seed  a  sight  o'  worser  places  nor 
this.'1 

"  It's  very  beautiful,"  responded  Benedict.  "  We  must  be 
getting  pretty  near." 

"  It's  not  very  fur  now,"  said  Jim. 

The  poor,  wandering  mind  was  trying  to  realize  the  hea 
venly  scenes  that  it  believed  were  about  to  burst  upon  its  vi 
sion.  The  quiet,  sunlit  water,  the  trees  still  bare  but  bour 
geoning,  the  songs  of  birds,  the  blue  sky  across  which  fleecy 
clouds  were  peacefully  floating,  the  breezes  that  kissed  his 
fevered  cheek,  the  fragrance  of  the  bordering  evergreens, 
and  the  electric  air  that  entered  his  lungs  so  long  accustomed 
to  the  poisonous  fetor  of  his  cell,  were  well  calculated  to  fos 
ter  his  delusion,  and  to  fill  his  soul  with  a  peace  to  which  it 
had  long  been  a  stranger.  An  exquisite  languor  stole  upon 
him,  and  under  the  pressure  of  his  long  fatigue,  his  eyelids 
fell,  and  he  dropped  into  a  quiet  slumber. 

When  the  boy  saw  that  his  father  was  asleep,  he  crept  back 
to  Jim  and  said : 

"  Mr.  Fenton,  I  don't  think  it's  right  for  you  to  tell  papa 
such  lies." 

"  Call  me  Jim.  The  Doctor  called  me  '  Mr.  Fenton/  and 
it  'most  killed  me." 

"Well,  Jim." 

"  Now,  that  sounds  like  it.  You  jest  look  a  here,  my  boy. 
Your  pa  ain't  livin'  in  this  world  now,  an'  what's  true  to  hira 
5s  a  lie  to  us,  an'  what's  true  to  us  is  a  lie  to  him.  1  jest  go 
into  his  world  and  say  what's  true  whar  he  lives.  Isn't  that 
right?" 


SEVEN  OAKS.  73 

This  vein  of  casuistry  was  new  to  the  boy,  and  he  was  stag 
gered. 

"When  your  pa  gits  well  agin,  an*  here's  hopin/  Jim 
Fenton  an'  he  will  be  together  in  their  brains,  ye  know,  and 
then  they  won't  be  talkin'  like  a  couple  of  jay-birds,  and  I 
won't  lie  to  him  no  more  nor  I  would  to  you." 

The  lad's  troubled  mind  was  satisfied,  and  he  crept  back  to 
his  father's  feet,  where  he  lay  until  he  discovered  Turk,  whi 
ning  and  wagging  his  tail  in  front  of  the  little  hillock  that  was 
crowned  by  Jim's  cabin. 

The  long,  hard,  weird  journey  was  at  an  end.  The  boat 
came  up  broadside  to  the  shore,  and  Jim  leaped  out,  and 
showered  as  many  caresses  upon  his  dog  as  he  received  from 
the  faithful  brute. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

IN  WHICH   SEVENOAKS    EXPERIENCES    A    GREAT    COMMOTION,  AND 

COMES    TO    THE    CONCLUSION  THAT    BENEDICT    HAS    MET 

WITH    FOUL    PLAY. 

THOMAS  BUFFUM  and  his  family  slept  late  on  Sunday  morn 
ing,  and  the  operating  forces  of  the  establishment  lingered  in 
their  beds.  When,  at  last,  the  latter  rose  and  opened  the 
doors  of  the  dormitories,  the  escape  of  Benedict  was  detected. 
Mr.  Buffum  was  summoned  at  once,  and  hastened  across  the 
street  in  his  shirt -sleeves,  which,  by  the  way,  was  about  as  far 
toward  full  dress  as  he  ever  went  when  the  weather  did  not 
compel  him  to  wear  a  coat.  Buffum  examined  the  inner  door 
and  saw  that  it  had  been  forced  by  a  tremendous  exercise  of 
muscular  power.  He  remembered  the  loss  of  the  key,  and 
knew  that  some  one  had  assisted  in  the  operation. 

"  Where's  that  boy?"  wheezed  the  keeper. 

An  attendant  rushed  to  the  room  where  the  boy  usually 
slept,  and  came  back  with  the  report  that  the  bed  had  not 
been  occupied.  Then  there  was  a  search  outside  for  tracks, 
but  the  rain  had  obliterated  them  all.  The  keeper  was  in 
despair.  He  did  not  believe  that  Benedict  could  have  sur 
vived  the  storm  of  the  night,  and  he  did  not  doubt  that  the 
boy  had  undertaken  to  hide  his  father  somewhere. 

"  Go  out,  all  of  you,  all  round,  and  find  'em,"  hoarsely 
whispered  Mr.  Buffum,  "and  bring  'em  back,  and  say  nothing 
about  it." 

The  men,  including  several  of  the  more  reliable  paupers, 
divided  themselves  into  little  squads,  and  departed  without 
breakfast,  in  order  to  get  back  before  the  farmers  should  drive 

74 


SEVEN  OAKS.  75 

by  on  their  way  to  church.  The  orchards,  the  woods,  the 
thickets — all  possible  covers — were  searched,  and  searched,  of 
course,  in  vain.  One  by  one  the  parties  returned  to  report 
that  they  could  not  find  the  slightest  sign  of  the  fugitives. 

Mr.  Buffum,  who  had  not  a  question  that  the  little  boy  had 
planned  and  executed  the  escape,  assisted  by  the  paroxysmal 
strength  of  his  insane  father,  felt  that  he  was  seriously  com 
promised.  The  flight  and  undoubted  death  of  old  Tilden 
were  too  fresh  in  the  public  mind  to  permit  this  new  reflec 
tion  upon  his  faithfulness  and  efficiency  as  a  public  guardian 
to  pass  without  a  popular  tumult.  He  had  but  just  assumed 
the  charge  of  the  establishment  for  another  year,  and  he 
knew  that  Robert  Belcher  would  be  seriously  offended,  for 
more  reasons  than  the  public  knew,  or  than  that  person  would 
be  willing  to  confess.  He  had  never  in  his  life  been  in  more 
serious  trouble.  He  hardly  tasted  his  breakfast,  and  was  too 
crusty  and  cross  to  be  safely  addressed  by  any  member  of  his 
family.  Personally  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  range  the 
fields,  and  when  he  had  received  the  reports  of  the  parties 
who  had  made  the  search,  he  felt  that  he  had  a  job  to  under 
take  too  serious  for  his  single  handling. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Belcher  had  risen  at  his  leisure,  in 
blissful  unconsciousness  of  the  calamities  that  had  befallen  his 
protege.  He  owned  a  pew  in  every  church  in  Sevenoaks,  and 
boasted  that  he  had  no  preferences.  Once  every  Sunday  he 
went  to  one  of  these  churches  \  and  there  was  a  fine  flutter 
throughout  the  building  whenever  he  and  his  family  appeared. 
He  felt  that  the  building  had  received  a  special  honor  from 
his  visit ;  but  if  he  was  not  guided  by  his  preferences,  he  cer 
tainly  was  by  his  animosities.  If  for  three  or  four  Sabbaths 
in  succession  he  honored  a  single  church  by  his  presence,  it 
was  usually  to  pay  off  a  grudge  against  some  minister  or 
member  of  another  flock.  He  delighted  to  excite  the  suspi 
cion  that  he  had  at  last  become  attached  to  one  clergyman, 
and  that  the  other  churches  were  in  danger  of  being  forsaken 
by  him.  It  would  be  painful  to  paint  the  popular  weakness 


76  SEVENOAKS. 

and  the  ministerial  jealousy — painful  to  describe  the  lack  of 
Christian  dignity — with  which  these  demonstrations  of 
worldly  caprice  and  arrogance,  were  watched  by  pastor  and 
flock. 

After  the  town  meeting  and  the  demonstration  of  the  Rev. 
Solomon  Snow,  it  was  not  expected  that  Mr.  Belcher  would 
visit  the  church  of  the  latter  for  some  months.  During  the 
first  Sabbath  after  this  event,  there  was  gloom  in  that  clergy 
man's  congregation ;  for  Mr.  Belcher,  in  his  routine,  should 
have  illuminated  their  public  services  by  his  presence,  but  he 
did  not  appear. 

"This  comes,"  bitterly  complained  one  of  the  deacons, 
"of  a  minister's  meddling  with  public  affairs." 

But  during  the  week  following,  Mr.  Belcher  had  had  a 
satisfactory  interview  with  Mr.  Snow,  and  on  the  morning  of 
the  flight  of  Benedict  he  drove  in  the  carriage  with  his  family 
up  to  the  door  of  that  gentleman's  church,  and  gratified  the 
congregation  and  its  reverend  head  by  walking  up  the  broad 
aisle,  and,  with  his  richly  dressed  flock,  taking  his  old  seat. 

As  he  looked  around  upon  the  humbler  parishioners,  he 
seemed  to  say,  by  his  patronizing  smile  :  "  Mr.  Snow  and  the 
great  proprietor  are  at  peace.  Make  yourselves  easy,  and 
enjoy  your  sunshine  while  it  lasts." 

Mr.  Buffum  never  went  to  church.  He  had  a  theory  that 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  remain  in  charge  of  his  establish 
ment,  and  that  he  was  doing  a  good  thing  by  sending  his  ser 
vants  and  dependents.  When,  therefore,  he  entered  Mr. 
Snow's  church  on  the  Sunday  morning  which  found  Mr.  Belcher 
comfortably  seated  there,  and  stumped  up  the  broad  aisle  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  the  amazement  of  the  minister  and  the  con 
gregation  may  be  imagined.  If  he  had  been  one  of  his  own 
insane  paupers  en  deshabille  he  could  not  have  excited  more 
astonishment  or  more  consternation. 

Mr.  Snow  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  stanza  of  the  first 
hymn,  as  if  the  words  had  dried  upon  his  tongue.  Every 
thing  seemed  to  stop.  Of  this,  however,  Mr.  Buffum  was  ig- 


SEVENOAKS.  77 

norant.  He  had  no  sense  of  the  proprieties  of  the  house, 
and  was  intent  only  on  reaching  Mr.  Belcher's  pew. 

Bending  to  his  patron's  ear,  he  whispered  a  few  words, 
received  a  few  words  in  return,  and  then  retired.  The  pro 
prietor's  face  was  red  with  rage  and  mortification,  but  he 
tried  to  appear  unconcerned,  and  the  services  went  on  to  their 
conclusion.  Boys  who  sat  near  the  windows  stretched  their 
necks  to  see  whether  smoke  was  issuing  from  the  poor-house ; 
nnd  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  ministrations  of  the  morning 
were  not  particularly  edifying  to  the  congregation  at  large. 
Even  Mr.  Snow  lost  his  place  in  his  sermon  more  frequently 
than  usual.  When  the  meeting  was  dismissed,  a  hundred 
heads  came  together  in  chattering  surmise,  and  when  they 
walked  into  the  streets,  the  report  of  Benedict's  escape  with 
his  little  boy  met  them.  They  understood,  too,  why  Buffum 
had  come  to  Mr.  Belcher  with  his  trouble.  He  was  Mr.  Bel 
cher's  man,  and  Mr.  Belcher  had  publicly  assumed  responsi 
bility  for  him. 

No  more  meetings  were  held  in  any  of  the  churches  of 
Sevenoaks  that  day.  The  ministers  came  to  perform  the  ser 
vices  of  the  afternoon,  and,  finding  their  pews  empty,  went 
home.  A  reward  of  one  hundred  dollars,  offered  by  Mr.  Bel 
cher  to  any  one  who  would  find  Benedict  and  his  boy,  "  and 
return  them  in  safety  to  the  home  provided  for  them  by  the 
town,"  was  a  sufficient  apology,  without  the  motives  of  curi 
osity  and  humanity  and  the  excitement  of  a  search  in  the 
fields  and  woods,  for  a  universal  relinquishment  of  Sunday 
habits,  and  the  pouring  out  of  the  whole  population  on  an 
expedition  of  discovery. 

Sevenoaks  and  its  whole  vicinity  presented  a  strange  aspect 
that  afternoon.  Tl  .ere  had  slept  in  the  hearts  of  the  people 
a  pleasant  and  sympathetic  memory  of  Mr.  Benedict.  They 
had  seen  him  struggling,  dreaming,  hopeful,  yet  always  disap 
pointed,  dropping  lower  and  lower  into  poverty,  and,  at  last, 
under  accumulated  trials,  deprived  of  his  reason.  They  knew 
but  little  of  his  relations  to  Mr.  Belcher,  but  they  had  a 


78  SEVENOAKS. 

strong  suspicion  that  he  had  been  badly  treared  by  the  pro 
prietor,  and  that  it  had  been  in  the  power  of  the  latter  to  save 
him  from  wreck.  So,  when  it  became  known  that  he  had 
escaped  with  his  boy  from  the  poor-house,  and  that  both  had 
been  exposed  to  the  storm  of  the  previous  night,  they  all — 
men  and  boys — covered  the  fields,  and  filled  the  woods  for 
miles  around,  in  a  search  so  minute  that  hardly  a  rod  of  cover 
was  left  unexplored. 

It  was  a  strange  excitement  which  stirred  the  women  at 
home,  as  well  as  the  men  afield.  Nothing  was  thought  of 
but  the  fugitives  and  the  pursuit. 

Robert  Belcher,  in  the  character  of  principal  citizen,  was 
riding  back  and  forth  behind  his  gray  trotters,  and  stimulating 
the  search  in  every  quarter.  Poor  Miss  Butterworth  sat  at 
her  window,  making  indiscriminate  inquiries  of  every  passen 
ger,  or  going  about  from  house  to  house,  working  off  her  ner 
vous  anxiety  in  meaningless  activities. 

As  the  various  squads  became  tired  by  their  long  and  un 
successful  search,  they  went  to  the  poor-house  to  report,  and, 
before  sunset,  the  hill  was  covered  by  hundreds  of  weary  and 
excited  men.  Some  were  sure  they  had  discovered  traces  of 
the  fugitives.  Others  expressed  the  conviction  that  they  had 
thrown  themselves  into  a  well.  One  man,  who  did  not  love 
Mr.  Belcher,  and  had  heard  the  stories  of  his  ill-treatment  of 
Benedict,  breathed  the  suspicion  that  both  he  and  his  boy  had 
been  foully  dealt  with  by  one  who  had  an  interest  in  getting 
them  out  of  the  way. 

It  was  a  marvel  to  see  how  quickly  this  suspicion  took  wing. 
It  seemed  to  be  the  most  rational  theory  of  the  event.  It 
went  from  mouth  to  mouth  and  ear  to  ear,  as  the  wind 
breathes  among  the  leaves  of  a  forest ;  but  there  were  reasons 
in  every  man's  mind,  or  instincts  in  his  nature,  that  withheld 
the  word  "murder"  from  the  ear  of  Mr.  Belcher.  As  soon 
as  the  suspicion  became  general,  the  aspect  of  every  incident 
of  the  flight  changed.  Then  they  saw,  apparently  for  the 
first  time,  that  a  man  weakened  by  disease  and  long  confine* 


SEVENOAKS.  79 

ment,  and  never  muscular  at  his  best,  could  not  have  forced 
the  inner  door  of  Benedict's  cell.  Then  they  connected  Mr. 
Belcher's  behavior  during  the  day  with  the  affair,  and,  though 
they  said  nothing  at  the  time,  they  thought  of  his  ostentatious 
anxiety,  his  evident  perturbation  when  Mr.  Buffum  announced 
to  him  the  escape,  his  offer  of  the  reward  for  Benedict's  dis 
covery,  and  his  excited  personal  appearance  among  them.  He 
acted  like  a  guilty  man — a  man  who  was  trying  to  blind  them, 
and  divert  suspicion  from  himself. 

To  the  great  horror  of  Mr.  Buffum,  his  establishment  was 
thoroughly  inspected  and  ransacked,  and,  as  one  after  an 
other  left  the  hill  for  his  home,  he  went  with  indignation  and 
shame  in  his  heart,  and  curses  on  his  lips.  Even  if  Benedict 
and  his  innocent  boy  had  been  murdered,  murder  was  not  the 
only  foul  deed  that  had  been  committed  on  the  hill.  The 
poor-house  itself  was  an  embodied  crime  against  humanity 
and  against  Christianity,  for  which  the  town  of  Sevenoaks  at 
large  was  responsible,  though  it  had  been  covered  from  their 
sight  by  Mr.  Belcher  and  the  keeper.  It  would  have  taken 
but  a  spark  to  kindle  a  conflagration.  Such  was  the  excite 
ment  that  only  a  leader  was  needed  to  bring  the  tumult  of  a 
violent  mob  around  the  heads  of  the  proprietor  and  his  protege. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  not  a  fool,  and  he  detected,  as  he  sat  in 
his  wagon  talking  with  Buffum  in  a  low  tone,  the  change  that 
had  come  over  the  excited  groups  around  him.  They  looked 
at  him  as  they  talked,  with  a  serious  scrutiny  to  which  he  was 
unused.  They  no  more  addressed  him  with  suggestions  and 
inquiries.  They  shunned  his  neighborhood,  and  silently  went 
off  down  the  hill.  He  knew,  as  well  as  if  they  had  been 
spoken,  that  there  were  not  only  suspicions  against  him,  but  in 
dignation  over  the  state  of  things  that  had  been  discovered  in 
the  establishment,  for  whose  keeper  he  had  voluntarily  become 
responsible.  Notwithstanding  all  his  efforts  to  assist  them  in 
their  search,  he  knew  that  in  their  hearts  they  charged  him  with 
Benedict's  disappearance.  At  last  he  bade  Buffum  good 
night,  and  went  down  the  hill  to  his  home. 


8o  SEVENOAKS. 

He  had  no  badinage  for  Phipps  during  that  drive,  and  no 
pleasant  reveries  in  his  library  during  that  evening,  for  all  the 
possibilities  of  the  future  passed  through  his  mind  in  dark  re 
view.  If  Benedict  had  been  murdered,  who  could  have  any 
interest  in  his  death  but  himself?  If  he  had  died  from  expo 
sure,  his  secrets  would  be  safe,  but  the  charge  of  his  death 
would  be  brought  to  his  door,  as  Miss  Butterworth  had  already 
brought  the  responsibility  for  his  insanity  there.  If  he  had 
got  away  alive,  and  should  recover,  or  if  his  boy  should  get 
into  hands  that  would  ultimately  claim  for  him  his  rights,  then 
his  prosperity  would  be  interfered  with.  He  did  not  wish  to  ac 
knowledge  to  himself  that  he  desired  the  poor  man's  death, 
but  he  was  aware  that  in  his  death  he  found  the  most  hopeful 
vision  of  the  night.  Angry  with  the  public  feeling  that  ac 
cused  him  of  a  crime  of  which  he  was  not  guilty,  and  guilty 
of  a  crime  of  which  definitely  the  public  knew  little  or  no 
thing,  there  was  no  man  in  Sevenoaks  so  unhappy  as  he.  He 
loved  power  and  popularity.  He  had  been  happy  in  the 
thought  that  he  controlled  the  town,  and  for  the  moment,  at 
least,  he  knew  the  town  had  slipped  disloyally  out  of  his 
hands. 

An  impromptu  meeting  of  citizens  was  held  that  evening, 
at  which  Mr.  Belcher  did  not  assist.  The  clergymen  were  all 
present,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  general  understanding  that 
they  had  been  ruled  long  enough  in  the  interest  and  by  the 
will  of  a  single  man.  A  subscription  was  raised  for  a  large 
amount,  and  the  sum  offered  to  any  one  who  would  discover 
the  fugitives. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Belcher  found  the  village  quiet  and 
very  reticent,  and  having  learned  that  a  subscription  had  been 
raised  without  calling  upon  him,  he  laughingly  expressed  his 
determination  to  win  the  reward  for  himself. 

Then  he  turned  his  grays  up  the  hill,  had  a  long  consulta 
tion  with  Mr.  BufTum,  who  informed  him  of  the  fate  of  old 
Tilden,  and  started  at  a  rapid  pace  toward  Number  Nine. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

IN  WHICH  JIM  AND  MIKE  CONLIN  PASS  THROUGH  A  GREAT  T1UAL 
AND   COME  OUT    VICTORIOUS. 

"THERE,  Turk,  there  they  be  !"  said  Jim  to  his  dog,  point 
ing  to  his  passengers,  as  he  stood  caressing  him,  with  one  foot 
on  the  land  and  the  other  holding  the  boat  to  the  shore. 
"There's  the  little  chap  that  I've  brung  to  play  with  ye,  an' 
there's  the  sick  man  that  we've  got  to  take  care  on.  Now 
don't  ye  make  no  row.'* 

Turk  looked  up  into  his  master's  face,  then  surveyed  the 
pew  comers  with  a  wag  of  his  tail  that  had  all  the  force  of  a 
welcome,  and,  when  Harry  leaped  on  shore,  he  smelt  him 
over,  licked  his  hand,  and  accepted  him  as  a  satisfactory  com 
panion. 

Jim  towed  his  boat  around  a  point  into  a  little  cove  where 
there  was  a  beach,  and  then  drew  it  by  a  long,  strong  pull  en 
tirely  out  of  the  water.  Lifting  Benedict  and  carrying  him 
to  his  own  cabin,  he  left  him  in  charge  of  Harry  and  the  dog, 
while  he  went  to  make  his  bed  in  "  Number  Ten."  His  ar 
rangements  completed,  he  transferred  his  patient  to  the  quar 
ters  prepared  for  him,  where,  upheld  and  pillowed  by  the 
sweetest  couch  that  weary  body  ever  rested  upon,  he  sank  into 
slumber. 

Harry  and  the  dog  became  inseparable  companions  at  once ; 
and  as  it  was  necessary  for  Jim  to  watch  with  Benedict  during 
the  night,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  inducing  the  new  friends  to 
occupy  his  cabin  together.  The  dog  understood  his  responsi 
bility  and  the  lad  accepted  his  protector ;  and  when  both  had 
been  bountifully  fed  they  went  to  sleep  side  by  side. 

81 


82  SEVENOAKS. 

It  was,  however,  a  troubled  night  at  Number  Ten.  The 
patient's  imagination  had  been  excited,  his  frame  had  under 
gone  a  great  fatigue,  and  the  fresh  air,  no  less  than  the  rain 
that  had  found  its  way  to  his  person  through  all  his  wrappings, 
on  the  previous  night,  had  produced  a  powerful  impression 
upon  his  nervous  system.  It  was  not  strange  that  the  morning 
found  Jim  unrefreshed,and  his  patient  in  a  high,  delirious  fever. 

"Now's  the  time,"  said  Jim  to  himself,  "when  a  feller 
wants  some  sort  o'  religion  or  a  woman  ;  an'  I  hain't  got  no- 
thin'  but  a  big  dog  an'  a  little  boy,  an'  no  doctor  nearer  'n 
forty  mile." 

Poor  Jim  !  He  did  not  know  that  the  shock  to  which  he 
had  subjected  the  enfeebled  lunatic  was  precisely  what  was 
needed  to  rouse  every  effort  of  nature  to  effect  a  cure.  He 
could  not  measure  the  influence  of  the  subtle  earth-currents 
that  breathed  over  him.  He  did  not  know  that  there  was  bet 
ter  medicine  in  the  pure  air,  in  the  balsamic  bed,  in  the  broad 
etillness,  in  the  nourishing  food  and  the  careful  nursing,  than 
in  all  the  drugs  of  the  world.  He  did  not  know  that,  in  or 
der  to  reach  the  convalescence  for  which  he  so  ardently  longed, 
his  patient  must  go  down  to  the  very  basis  of  his  life,  and  be 
gin  and  build  up  anew ;  that  in  changing  from  an  old  and 
worn-out  existence  to  a  fresh  and  healthy  one,  there  must 
come  a  point  between  the  two  conditions  where  there  would 
seem  to  be  no  life,  and  where  death  would  appear  to  be  the 
only  natural  determination.  He  was  burdened  with  his  re 
sponsibility  ;  and  only  the  consciousness  that  his  motives  were 
pure  and  his  patient  no  more  hopeless  in  his  hands  than  in 
those  from  which  he  had  rescued  him,  strengthened  his  equa« 
nimity  and  sustained  his  courage. 

As  the  sun  rose,  Benedict  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber,  and, 
while  Jim  watched  his  Heavy  breathing,  the  door  was  noise 
lessly  opened,  and  Harry  and  the  dog  looked  in.  The  hungry 
look  of  the  lad  summoned  Jim  to  new  duties,  and  leaving 
Harry  to  watch  his  father,  he  went  off  to  prepare  a  breakfast 
^>r  his  family. 


SEVENOAKS.  83 

All  that  day  and  all  the  following  night  Jim's  time  was  so 
occupied  in  feeding  the  well  and  administering  to  the  sick, 
that  his  own  sleeplessness  began  to  tell  upon  him.  He  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  the  sleep  of  a  healthy  and  active  man 
began  to  look  haggard,  and  to  long  for  the  assistance  of  a 
trusty  hand.  It  was  with  a  great,  irrepressible  shout  of  grati 
fication  that,  at  the  close  of  the  second  day,  he  detected  the 
form  of  Mike  Conlin  walking  up  the  path  by  the  side  of  the 
river,  with  a  snug  pack  of  provisions  upon  his  back. 

Jim  pushed  his  boat  from  the  shore,  and  ferried  Mike  over 
to  his  cabin.  The  Irishman  had  reached  the  landing  ten 
miles  below  to  learn  that  the  birch  canoe  in  which  he  had 
expected  to  ascend  the  river  had  either  been  stolen  or  washed 
away.  He  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  take  the  old  "tote- 
road  ' '  worn  in  former  years  by  the  lumbermen,  at  the  side 
of  the  river,  and  to  reach  Jim's  camp  on  foot.  He  was  very 
tired,  but  the  warmth  of  his  welcome  brought  a  merry  twinkle 
to  his  eyes  and  the  ready  blarney  to  his  tongue. 

"Och  !  divil  a  bit  wud  ye  be  glad  to  see  Mike  Conlin  if 
ye  knowed  he'd  come  to  arrist  ye.  Jim,  ye' re  me  prisoner. 
Ye've  been  stalin  a  pauper — a  pair  iv  'em,  faith — an'  ye 
must  answer  fur  it  wid  yer  life  to  owld  Belcher.  Come 
along  wid  me.  None  o'  yer  nonsinse,  or  I'll  put  a  windy 
in  ye." 

Jim  eyed  him  with  a  smile,  but  he  knew  that  no  ordinary 
errand  had  brought  Mike  to  him  so  quickly. 

"  Old  Belcher  sent  ye,  did  he?"  said  Jim. 

"Be  gorry  he  did,  an'  I've  come  to  git  a  reward.  Now, 
if  ye'll  be  dacint,  ye  shall  have  part  of  it." 

Although  Jim  saw  that  Mike  was  apparently  in  sport,  he 
knew  that  the  offer  of  a  cash  reward  for  his  own  betrayal  was 
indeed  a  sore  temptation  to  him. 

"  Did  ye  tell  'im  anything,  Mike?"  inquired  Jim,  solemnly. 

"Divil  a  bit." 

"  An'  ye  knowed  I'd  lick  ye  if  ye  did.  Ye  knowed  that* 
didn't  ye?" 


84  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"I  knowed  ye'd  thry  it  faithful,  an*  if  ye  didn't  do  it 
there'd  be  niver  a  man  to  blame  but  Mike  Conlin." 

Jim  said  no  more,  but  went  to  work  and  got  a  bountiful 
supper  for  Mike.  When  he  had  finished,  he  took  him  over 
to  Number  Ten,  where  Harry  and  Turk  were  watching. 
Quietly  opening  the  door  of  the  cabin,  he  entered.  Benedict 
lay  on  his  bed,  his  rapt  eyes  looking  up  to  the  roof.  His 
clean-cut,  deathly  face,  his  long,  tangled  locks,  and  the  com 
fortable  appointments  about  him,  were  all  scanned  by  Mike, 
and,  without  saying  a  word,  both  turned  and  retired. 

"  Mike,"  said  Jim,  as  they  retraced  their  way,  "  that  man 
an'  me  was  like  brothers.  I  found  'im  in  the  devil's  own 
hole,  an'  any  man  as  comes  atween  me  an'  him  must  look 
out  fur  'imself  forever  arter.  Jim  Fenton's  a  good-natered 
man  when  he  ain't  riled,  but  he'd  sooner  fight  nor  eat  when 
he  is.  Will  ye  help  me,  or  won't  ye  ?" 

Mike  made  no  reply,  but  opened  his  pack  and  brought  out 
a  tumbler  of  jelly.  "  There,  ye  bloody  blaggard,  wouldn't 
ye  be  afther  lickin'  that  now?"  said  he;  and  then,  as  he  pro 
ceeded  to  unload  the  pack,  his  tongue  ran  on  in  comment. 
(A  paper  of  crackers.)  "  Mash  'em  all  to  smithereens  now. 
Give  it  to'  em,  Jim."  (A  roasted  chicken.)  "  Pitch  intil 
the  rooster,  Jim.  Crack  every  bone  in  'is  body."  (A  bottle 
of  brandy.)  "  Knock  the  head  aff  his  shoolders  and  suck  'is 
blood."  (A  package  of  tea.)  "  Down  with  the  tay  !  It's 
insulted  ye,  Jim."  (A  piece  of  maple  sugar.)  "  Och  !  the 
owld,  brown  rascal !  ye' 11  be  afther  doin  Jim  Fenton  a  bad 
turn,  will  ye?  Ye'll  be  brakin  'is  teeth  fur  'im."  Then  fol 
lowed  a  plate,  cup  and  saucer,  and  these  were  supplemented 
b>  an  old  shirt  and  various  knick-knacks  that  only  a  woman 
would  remember  in  trying  to  provide  for  an  invalid  far  away 
from  the  conveniences  and  comforts  of  home. 

Jim  watched  Mike  with  tearful  eyes,  which  grew  more  and 
more  loaded  and  luminous  as  the  disgorgement  of  the  con 
tents  of  the  pack  progressed. 

"  Mike,  will  ye  forgive  me?"  said  Jim,  stretching  out  his 


SEVENOAKS.  85 

hand.  "  I  was  afeared  the  money 'd  be  too  many  for  ye  \  but 
barrin'  yer  big  foot  an'  the  ugly  nose  that's  on  ye,  ye're  an 
angel." 

"  Niver  ye  mind  me  fut,"  responded  Mike.  "  Me  inimies 
don't  like  it,  an'  they  can  give  a  good  raison  fur  it ;  an'  as 
fur  me  nose,  it'll  look  worser  nor  it  does  now  when  Jim  Fen- 
ton  gets  a  crack  at  it." 

"Mike,  "said  Jim,  "ye  hurt  me.  Here's  my  hand,  anf 
honors  are  easy." 

Mike  took  the  hand  without  more  ado,  and  then  sat  back 
and  told  Jim  all  about  it. 

"Ye  see,  afther  ye  wint  away  that  night  I  jist  lay  down  an' 
got  a  bit  iv  a  shnooze,  an'  in  the  mornin'  I  shtarted  for  me 
owld  horse.  It  was  a  big  thramp  to  where  ye  lift  him,  and 
comin'  back  purty  slow,  I  picked  up  a  few  shticks  and  put 
intil  the  wagin  for  me  owld  woman — pine  knots  an'  the  like 
o'  that.  I  didn't  git  home  much  afore  darruk,  and  me  owld 
horse  wasn't  more  nor  in  the  shtable  an'  I  'atin'  me  supper, 
quiet  like,  afore  Belcher  druv  up  to  me  house  wid  his  purty 
man  on  the  seat  wid  'im.  An*  says  he:  '  Mike  Conlin  ! 
Mike  Conlin !  Come  to  the  dour  wid  ye  ! '  So  I  wint  to  the 
dour,  an'  he  says,  says  he  :  '  Hev  ye  seen  a  crazy  old  feller 
wid  a  b'y?'  An'  says  I :  'There's  no  crazy  owld  feller  wid 
a  b'y  been  by  me  house  in  the  daytime.  If  they  wint  by  at 
all  at  all,  it  was  when  me  family  was  aslape.'  Then  he  got 
out  of  his  wagin  and  come  in,  and  he  looked  'round  in  all 
the  corners  careless  like,  and  thin  he  said  he  wanted  to  go  to 
the  barrun.  So  we  wint  to  the  barrun,  and  he  looked  all 
about  purty  careful,  and  he  says,  says  he :  '  What  ye  been 
doin'  wid  the  owld  horse  on  a  Sunday,  Mike  ?'  And  says  I 
to  him,  says  I :  '  Jist  a  pickin'  up  a  few  shticks  for  the  owld 
woman.'  An'  when  he  come  out  he  see  the  shticks  in  the 
wagin,  and  he  says,  says  he :  '  Mike,  if  ye'll  find  these  fellers 
in  the  woods  I'll  give  ye  five  hundred  dollars.'  And  says  I : 
1  Squire  Belcher,'  says  I  (for  I  knowed  he  had  a  wake  shpot 
in  'im),  'ye  are  richer  nor  a  king,  and  Mike  Conlin's  no 


86  SEVENOAKS. 

betther  nor  a  pauper  himself.  Give  me  a  hundred  dollars,1 
says  I,  'an'  I'll  thry  it.  And  be  gorry  I've  got  it  right  there' 
(slapping  his  pocket.)  'Take  along  somethin'  for  'em  to  ate,' 
says  he,  '  and  faith  I've  done  that  same  and  found  me  min  ;  an' 
now  I'll  stay  wid  ye  fur  a  week  an'  'am  me  hundred  dollars." 

The  week  that  Mike  promised  Jim  was  like  a  lifetime.  To 
have  some  one  with  him  to  share  his  vigils  and  his  responsi 
bility  lifted  a  great  burden  from  his  shoulders.  But  the  sick 
man  grew  weaker  and  weaker  every  day.  He  was  assiduously 
nursed  and  literally  fed  with  dainties ;  but  the  two  men  went 
about  their  duties  with  solemn  faces,  and  talked  almost  in  a 
whisper.  Occasionally  one  of  them  went  out  for  delicate 
game,  and  by  alternate  watches  they  managed  to  get  sufficient 
sleep  to  recruit  their  exhausted  energies. 

One  morning,  after  Mi>e  had  been  there  four  or  five  days, 
both  stood  by  Benedict's  bed,  and  felt  that  a  crisis  was  upon 
him.  A  great  uneasiness  had  possessed  him  for  some  hours, 
and  then  he  had  sunk  away  into  a  stupor  or  a  sleep,  they 
could  not  determine  which. 

The  two  men  watched  him  for  a  while,  and  then  went  out 
and  sat  down  on  a  log  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and  held  a  con 
sultation. 

"Mike,"  said  Jim,  "somethin'  must  be  did.  We've  did 
our  best  an*  nothin'  comes  on't ;  an*  Benedict  is  nearer 
Abrarn's  bosom  nor  I  ever  meant  he  should  come  in  my  time. 
I  ain't  no  doctor;  you  ain't  no  doctor.  We've  nussed  'im  the 
best  we  knowed,  but  I  guess  he's  a  goner.  It's  too  thunderin* 
bad,  for  I'd  set  my  heart  on  puttin'  'im  through." 

"Well,"  said  Mike,  "I've  got  me  hundred  dollars,  and 
you'll  git  yer  pay  in  the  nixt  wurruld." 

"I  don't  want  no  pay,"  responded  Jim.  "An'  what  do 
ye  know  about  the  next  world,  anyway?  " 

"The  praste  says  there  is  one,"  said  Mike. 

"  The  priest  be  hanged  !    What  does  he  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  That's  his  business,"  said  Mike.  "  It's  not  for  the  like 
o*  me  to  answer  for  the  praste." 


SEVENOAKS.  87 

"Well,  I  wish  he  was  here,  in  Number  Nine,  an*  we'd  see 
what  we  could  git  out  of  'im.  I've  got  to  the  eend  o'  my 
rope." 

The  truth  was  that  Jim  was  becoming  religious.  When  his 
own  strong  right  hand  failed  in  any  enterprise,  he  always 
came  to  a  point  where  the  possibilities  of  a  superior  wisdom 
and  power  dawned  upon  him.  He  had  never  offered  a  prayer 
in  his  life,  but  the  wish  for  some  medium  or  instrument  of  in 
tercession  was  strong  within  him.  At  last  an  idea  struck  him, 
and  he  turned  to  Mike  and  told  him  to  go  down  to  his  old 
cabin,  and  stay  there  while  he  sent  the  boy  back  to  him. 

When  Harry  came  up,  with  an  anxious  face,  Jim  took  him 
between  his  knees. 

"Little  feller,"  said  he,  "I  need  comfortin*.  It's  a  com 
fort  to  have  ye  here  in  my  arms,  an'  I  don't  never  want  to 
have  you  go  'way  from  me.  Your  pa  is  awful  sick,  and  per 
haps  he  ain't  never  goin'  to  be  no  better.  The  rain  and  the  ride, 
I'm  afeared,  was  too  many  fur  him;  but  I've  did  the  best  I 
could,  and  I  meant  well  to  both  on  ye,  an'  now  I  can't  do  no 
more,  and  there  ain't  no  doctor  here,  an'  there  ain't  no  minis 
ter.  Ye've  allers  been  a  pretty  good  boy,  hain't  ye?  And 
don't  ye  s'pose  ye  can  go  out  here  a  little  ways  behind  a  tree 
and  pray?  I'll  hold  on  to  the  dog;  an'  it  seems  to  me,  if  I 
was  the  Lord,  I  sh'd  pay  'tention  to  what  a  little  feller  like 
you  was  sayin'.  There  ain't  nobody  here  but  you  to  do  it 
now,  ye  know.  I  can  nuss  your  pa  and  fix  his  vittles,  and  set 
up  with  'im  nights,  but  I  can't  pray.  I  wasn't  brung  up  to  it. 
Now,  if  ye'll  do  this,  I  won't  ax  ye  to  do  nothin*  else." 

The  boy  was  serious.  He  looked  off  with  his  great  black 
eyes  into  the  woods.  He  had  said  his  prayers  many  times 
when  he  did  not  know  that  he  wanted  anything.  Here  was 
a  great  emergency,  the  most  terrible  that  he  had  ever  encoun 
tered.  He,  a  child,  was  the  only  one  who  could  pray  for  the 
life  of  his  father ;  and  the  thought  of  the  responsibility,  though 
it  was  only  dimly  entertained,  or  imperfectly  grasped,  over 
whelmed  him.  His  eyes,  that  had  been  strained  so  long,  filled 


88  SEVENOAKS. 

with  tears,  and,  bursting  into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  weeping, 
he  threw  his  arms  around  Jim's  neck,  where  he  sobbed  away 
his  sudden  and  almost  hysterical  passion.  Then  he  gently 
disengaged  himself  and  went  away. 

Jim  took  off  his  cap,  and  holding  fast  his  uneasy  and  in* 
quiring  dog,  bowed  his  head  as  if  he  were  in  a  church.  Soon, 
among  the  songs  of  birds  that  were  turning  the  morning  into 
music,  and  the  flash  of  waves  that  ran  shoreward  before  the 
breeze,  and  the  whisper  of  the  wind  among  the  evergreens, 
there  came  to  his  ear  the  voice  of  a  child,  pleading  for  his 
father's  life.  The  tears  dropped  from  his  eyes  and  rolled 
down  upon  his  beard.  There  was  an  element  of  romantic 
superstition  in  the  man,  of  which  his  request  was  the  offspring, 
and  to  which  the  sound  of  the  child's  voice  appealed  with 
irresistible  power. 

When  the  lad  reappeared  and  approached  him,  Jim  said  to 
himself:  "Now,  if  that  won't  do  it,  ther'  won't  nothin'." 
Reaching  out  his  arms  to  Harry,  as  he  came  up,  he  embraced 
him,  and  said  : 

"  My  boy,  ye've  did  the  right  thing.  It's  better  nor  all 
the  nussin',  an*  ye  must  do  that  every  mornin* — every 
mornin* ;  an*  don't  ye  take  no  for  an  answer.  Now  jest  go 
in  with  me  an'  see  your  pa." 

Jim  would  not  have  been  greatly  surprised  to  see  the  rude 
little  room  thronged  with  angels,  but  he  was  astonished,  al 
most  to  fainting,  to  see  Benedict  open  his  eyes,  look  about 
him,  then  turn  his  questioning  gaze  upon  him,  and  recognize 
him  by  a  faint  smile,  so  like  the  look  of  other  days — so  full 
of  intelligence  and  peace,  that  the  woodsman  dropped  upon 
his  knees  and  hid  his  face  in  the  blankets.  He  did  not  say  a 
word,  but  leaving  the  boy  passionately  kissing  his  father,  he 
ran  to  his  own  cabin. 

Seizing  Mike  by  the  shoulders,  he  shook  him  as  if  he  in 
tended  to  kill  him. 

"Mike,"  said  he,  "by  the  great  horned  spoons,  the  little 
fellow  has  fetched  'im  !  Git  yer  pa'tridge-broth  and  yer  bran* 


SEVENOAKS.  8g 

dy  quickerV  lightnin*.  Don't  talk  to  me  no  more  'bout  yer 
priest;  I've  got  a  trick  worth  two  o'  that." 

Both  men  made  haste  back  to  Number  Ten,  where  they 
found  their  patient  quite  able  to  take  the  nourishment  and 
stimulant  they  brought,  but  still  unable  to  speak.  He  soon 
sank  into  a  refreshing  slumber,  and  gave  signs  of  mending 
throughout  the  day.  The  men  who  had  watched  him  with 
such  careful  anxiety  were  full  of  hope,  and  gave  vent  to  their 
lightened  spirits  in  the  chaffing  which,  in  their  careless  hours, 
had  become  habitual  with  them.  The  boy  and  the  dog  rejoiced 
too  in  sympathy ;  and  if  there  had  been  ten  days  of  storm 
and  gloom,  ended  by  a  brilliant  outshining  sun,  the  aspect  of 
the  camp  could  not  have  been  more  suddenly  or  happily 
changed. 

Two  days  and  nights  passed  away,  and  then  Mike  declared 
that  he  must  go  home.  The  patient  had  spoken,  and  knew 
where  he  was.  He  only  remembered  the  past  as  a  dream. 
First,  it  was  dark  and  long,  and  full  of  horror,  but  at  length 
all  had  become  bright ;  and  Jim  was  made  supremely  happy  to 
learn  that  he  had  had  a  vision  of  the  glory  toward  which  he 
had  pretended  to  conduct  him.  Of  the  fatherly  breast  he  had 
slept  upon,  of  the  golden  streets  through  which  he  had  walked, 
of  the  river  of  the  water  of  life,  of  the  shining  ones  with 
whom  he  had  strolled  in  companionship,  of  the  marvelous 
city  which  hath  foundations,  and  the  ineffable  beauty  of  its 
Maker  and  Builder,  he  could  not  speak  in  full,  until  years  had 
passed  away ;  but  out  of  this  lovely  dream  he  had  emerged 
into  natural  life. 

"He's  jest  been  down  to  the  bottom,  and  started  new." 
That  was  the  sum  and  substance  of  Jim's  philosophy,  and  it 
would  be  hard  for  science  to  supplant  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Jim  to  Mike,  "  ye've  be'n  a  godsend.  Ye've 
did  more  good  in  a  week  nor  ye' 11  do  agin  if  ye  live  a  thou 
sand  year.  Ye've  arned  yer  hundred  dollars,  and  ye  haven't 
found  no  pauper,  and  ye  can  tell  'em  so.  Paul  Benedict  ain?" 
no  pauper,  an'  he  ain't  no  crazy  man  either." 


90  SEVENOAKS. 

"Be  gorry  ye* re  right!  "  said  Mike,  who  was  greatly  re. 
lieved  at  finding  his  report  shaped  for  him  in  such  a  way  that 
be  would  not  be  obliged  to  tell  a  falsehood. 

"An'  thank  yer  old  woman  for  me,"  said  Jim,  "an'  tell 
her  she's  the  queen  of  the  huckleberry  bushes,  an'  a  jewel  to 
the  side  o'  the  road  she  lives  on." 

"  Divil  a  bit  will  I  do  it,"  responded  Mike.  "  She'll  be  so 
grand  I  can't  live  wid  her." 

"An'  tell  her  when  ye  ve  had  yer  quarrel,"  said  Jim, 
"  that  there'll  allers  be  a  place  for  her  in  Number  Ten." 

They  chaffed  one  another  until  Mike  passed  out  of  sight 
among  the  trees ;  and  Jim,  notwithstanding  his  new  society, 
felt  lonelier,  as  he  turned  back  to  his  cabin,  than  he  had  ever 
felt  when  there  was  no  human  being  within  twenty  miles  of 
him. 

The  sun  of  early  May  had  begun  to  shine  brightly,  the 
willows  were  growing  green  by  the  side  of  the  river,  the  resi 
nous  buds  were  swelling  daily,  and  making  ready  to  burst  into 
foliage,  the  birds  returned  one  after  another  from  their  win 
ter  journeyings,  and  the  thrushes  filled  the  mornings  and  the 
evenings  alike  with  their  carolings.  Spring  had  come  to  the 
woods  again,  with  words  of  promise  and  wings  of  fulfillment, 
and  Jim's  heart  was  full  of  tender  gladness.  He  had  gratified 
his  benevolent  impulses,  and  he  found  upon  his  hands  that 
which  would  tax  their  abounding  energies.  Life  had  never 
seemed  to  him  so  full  of  significance  as  it  did  then.  He  could 
see  what  he  had  been  saving  money  for,  and  he  felt  that  out 
of  the  service  he  was  rendering  to  the  poor  and  the  distressed 
was  growing  a  love  for  them  that  gave  a  new  and  almost 
divine  flavor  to  his  existence. 

Benedict  mended  slowly,  but  he  mended  daily,  and  gave 
promise  of  the  permanent  recovery  of  a  healthy  body  and  a 
sound  mind.  It  was  a  happy  day  for  Jim  when,  with  Harry 
and  the  dog  bounding  before  him,  and  Benedict  leaning  on 
his  arm,  he  walked  over  to  his  old  cabin,  and  all  ate  together 
at  his  ovn  rude  table.  Jim  never  encouraged  his  friend's 


SEVENOAKS.  91 

questions.  He  endeavored,  by  every  practical  way,  to  restrain 
his  mind  from  wandering  into  the  past,  and  encouraged  him 
to  associate  his  future  with  his  present  society  and  surround 
ings.  The  stronger  the  patient  grew,  the  more  willing  he  be 
came  to  shut  out  the  past,  which,  as  memory  sometimes — nay, 
too  often — recalled  it,  was  an  unbroken  history  of  trial,  dis 
appointment,  grief,  despair,  and  dreams  of  great  darkness. 

There  was  one  man  whom  he  could  never  think  of  without 
a  shudder,  and  with  that  man  his  possible  outside  life  was 
inseparably  associated.  Mr.  Belcher  had  always  been  able, 
by  his  command  of  money  and  his  coarse  and  despotic  will, 
to  compel  him  into  any  course  or  transaction  that  he  desired. 
His  nature  was  offensive  to  Benedict  to  an  extreme  degree,  and 
when  in  his  presence,  particularly  when  he  entered  it  driven 
by  necessity,  he  felt  shorn  of  his  own  manhood.  He  felt  him 
to  be  without  conscience,  without  principle,  without  humanity, 
and  was  sure  that  it  needed  only  to  be  known  that  the  insane 
pauper  had  become  a  sound  and  healthy  man  to  make  him  the 
subject  of  a  series  of  persecutions  or  persuasions  that  would 
wrest  from  him  the  rights  and  values  on  which  the  great  proprie 
tor  was  foully  battening.  These  rights  and  values  he  never 
intended  to  surrender,  and  until  he  was  strong  and  indepen 
dent  enough  to  secure  them  to  himself,  he  did  not  care  to 
expose  his  gentler  will  to  the  machinations  of  the  great 
scoundrel  who  had  thrived  upon  his  unrewarded  genius. 

So,  by  degrees,  he  came  to  look  upon  the  woods  as  his 
home.  He  was  there  at  peace.  His  wife  had  faded  out  of 
the  world,  his  life  had  been  a  fatal  struggle  with  the  grossest 
selfishness,  he  had  come  out  of  the  shadows  into  a  new  life, 
and  in  that  life's  simple  conditions,  cared  for  by  Jim's  strong 
arms,  and  upheld  by  his  manly  and  cheerful  companionship, 
he  intended  to  build  safely  the  structure  of  his  health,  and  to 
erect  on  the  foundation  of  a  useful  experience  a  better  life. 

In  June,  Jim  did  his  planting,  confined  almost  entirely  to 
vegetables,  as  there  was  no  mill  near  enough  to  grind  his 
wheat  and  corn  should  he  succeed  in  growing  them.  By  the 


92  SEVENOAKS. 

time  the  young  plants  were  ready  for  dressing,  Benedict  could 
assist  Jim  for  an  hour  every  day;  and  when  the  autumn  came, 
the  invalid  of  Number  Ten  had  become  a  heavier  man  than 
he  ever  was  before.  Through  the  disguise  of  rags,  the  sun- 
browned  features,  the  heavy  beard,  and  the  generous  and 
almost  stalwart  figure,  his  old  and  most  intimate  friends  would 
have  failed  to  recognize  the  delicate  and  attenuated  man  they 
had  once  known.  Jim  regarded  him  with  great  pride,  and 
almost  with  awe.  He  delighted  to  hear  him  talk,  for  he  was 
full  of  information  and  overflowing  with  suggestion. 

"  Mr.  Benedict, "  said  Jim  one  day,  after  they  had  indulged 
in  one  of  their  long  talks,  "do  ye  s'pose  ye  can  make  a 
house?" 

"Anything." 

"A  raal  house,  all  ship-shape  for  a  woman  to  live  in?*' 

"Anything." 

"  With  a  little  stoop,  an*  a  bureau,  an'  some  chairs,  an*  a 
frame,  like,  fur  posies  to  run  up  on?" 

"Yes,  Jim,  and  a  thousand  things  you  never  thought  of." 

Jim  did  not  pursue  the  conversation  further,  but  went  down 
very  deep  into  a  brown  study. 

During  September,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  the 
visits  of  sportsmen,  one  of  whom,  a  New  York  lawyer,  who 
bore  the  name  of  Balfour,  had  come  into  the  woods  every 
year  for  several  successive  years.  He  became  aware  that  his 
supplies  were  running  low,  and  that  not  only  was  it  necessary 
to  lay  in  a  winter's  stock  of  flour  and  pork,  but  that  his  help 
less  proteges  should  be  supplied  with  clothing  for  the  coming 
cold  weather.  Benedict  had  become  quite  able  to  take  care 
of  himself  and  his  boy;  so  one  day  Jim,  having  furnished 
himself  with  a  supply  of  money  from  his  long  accumulated 
hoard,  went  off  down  the  river  for  a  week's  absence. 

He  had  a  long  consultation  with  Mike  Conlin,  who  agreed 
to  draw  his  lumber  to  the  river  whenever  he  should  see  fit  to 
begin  his  enterprise.  He  had  taken  along  a  list  of  tools,  fur 
nished  him  by  Benedict ;  and  Mike  carried  him  to  Sevenoaks 


SEVENOAKS.  93 

with  the  purpose  of  taking  back  whatever,  in  the  way  of  stores, 
they  should  purchase.  Jim  was  full  of  reminiscences  of  his 
night's  drive,  and  pointed  out  to  Mike  all  the  localities  of  his 
great  enterprise.  Things  had  undergone  a  transformation 
about  the  poor-house,  and  Jim  stopped  and  inquired  tenderly 
for  Tom  Buffum,  and  learned  that  soon  after  the  escape  of 
Benedict  the  man  had  gone  off  in  an  apoplectic  fit. 

"  He  was  a  pertickler  friend  o*  mine,"  said  Jim,  smiling  in  the 
face  of  the  new  occupant,  "an*  I'm  glad  he  went  off  so  quick 
he  didn't  know  where  he  wasgoin'.  Left  some  rocks,  didn't  he?" 

The  man  having  replied  to  Jim's  tender  solicitude,  that  he 
believed  the  family  were  sufficiently  well  provided  for,  the 
precious  pair  of  sympathizers  went  off  down  the  hill. 

Jim  and  Mike  had  a  busy  day  in  Sevenoaks,  and  at  about 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Miss  Keziah  Butterworth  was 
surprised  in  her  room  by  the  announcement  that  there  was  a 
strange  man  down  stairs  who  desired  to  see  her.  As  she  en 
tered  the  parlor  of  the  little  house,  she  saw  a  tall  man  stand 
ing  upright  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  fur  cap  in  his 
hand,  and  a  huge  roll  of  cloth  under  his  arm. 

"  Miss  Butterworth,  how  fare  ye?"  said  Jim. 

"  I  remember  you,"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  peering  up  into 
his  face  to  read  his  features  in  the  dim  light.  "  You  are  Jim 
Fenton,  whom  I  met  last  spring  at  the  town  meeting." 

"  I  knowed  you'd  remember  me.  Women  allers  does.  Be'n 
purty  chirk  this  summer?" 

"Very  well,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  and  Miss  Butterworth 
dropped  a  courtesy,  and  then,  sitting  down,  she  pointed  him 
to  a  chair. 

Jim  laid  his  cap  on  the  floor,  placed  his  roll  of  cloth  up 
right  between  his  knees,  and,  pulling  out  his  bandana  hand 
kerchief,  wiped  his  perspiring  face. 

"I've  brung  a  little  job  fur  ye,"  said  Jim. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  it,"  said  Miss  Butterworth  at  once.  "  FIB 
crowded  to  death  with  work.  It's  a  hurrying  time  of  year." 

"Yes,  I  knowed  that,  but  this  is  a  pertickler  iob.M 


94  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Oh,  they  are  all  particular  jobs,"  responded  Miss  Butter 
worth,  shaking  her  head. 

"But  this  is  a  job  fur  pertickler  folks." 
"  Folks  are  all  alike  to  me,"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  shaiply. 
"  These  clo'es,"  said  Jim,  "  are  fur  a  good  man  an'  a  little 
boy.  They  has  nothin*  but  rags  on  'em,  an'  won't  have  till 
ye  make  these  clo'es.  The  man  is  a  pertickler  friend  o'  mine, 
an'  the  boy  is  a  cute  little  chap,  an'  he  can  pray  better  nor 
any  minister  in  Sevenoaks.  If  you  knowed  what  I  know,  Miss 
Butterworth,  I  don't  know  but  you'd  do  somethin'  that  you'd 
be  ashamed  of,  an*  I  don't  know  but  you'd  do  something  that 
I  sh'd  be  ashamed  of.  Strange  things  has  happened,  an'  if 
ye  want  to  know  what  they  be,  you  must  make  these 
clo'es." 

Jim  had  aimed  straight  at  one  of  the  most  powerful  motives 
in  human  nature,  and  the  woman  began  to  relent,  and  to  talk 
more  as  if  it  were  possible  for  her  to  undertake  the  job. 

"It  may  be,"  said  the  tailoress,  thinking,  and  scratching 
the  top  of  her  head  with  a  hair-pin,  "  that  I  can  work  it  in  ; 
but  I  haven't  the  measure." 

"Well,  now,  let's  see,"  said  Jim,  pondering.  "  Whar  is 
they  about  such  a  man  ?  Don't  ye  remember  a  man  that  used 
to  be  here  by  the  name  of — of — Benedict,  wasn't  it  ? — a  feller 
about  up  to  my  ear — only  fleshier  nor  he  was  ?  An'  the  little 
feller — well,  he's  bigger  nor  Benedict's  boy — bigger,  leastways, 
nor  he  was  then." 

Miss  Butterworth  rose  to  her  feet,  went  up  to  Jim,  and 
looked  him  sharply  in  the  eyes. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  Benedict  and  his  boy?  " 

"All  that  any  feller  knows  I  know,"  said  Jim,  "  an'  I've 
never  telled  nobody  in  Sevenoaks." 

"Jim  Fenton.  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"Oh,  I  ain't.     I  like  ye  better  nor  any  woman  I  seen." 

"  But  you  needn't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,"  said  Miss  Butter- 
worth,  blushing. 

"An'  will  ye  make  the  clo'e*?  " 


SEVENOAKS.  95 

"  Yes,  I'll  make  the  clothes,  if  I  make  them  for  nothing, 
and  sit  up  nights  to  do  it." 

"Give  us  your  hand,"  said  Jim,  and  he  had  a  woman's 
hand  in  his  own  almost  before  he  knew  it,  and  his  face  grew 
crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  bushy  hair. 

Miss  Butterworth  drew  her  chair  up  to  his,  and  in  a  low 
tone  he  told  her  the  whole  long  story  as  only  he  knew  it,  and 
only  he  could  tell  it. 

"I  think  you  are  the  noblest  man  lever  saw,"  said  Miss 
Butterworth,  trembling  with  excitement. 

"  Well,  turn  about's  fa'r  play,  they  say,  an'  I  think  you're 
the  most  genuine  creetur'  I  ever  seen,"  responded  Jim.  "All 
we  want  up  in  the  woods  now  is  a  woman,  an'  I'd  sooner  have 
ye  thar  nor  any  other." 

"Poh!  what  a  spoon  you  are!"  said  Miss  Butterworth, 
tossing  her  head. 

"  Then  there's  timber  enough  in  me  fur  the  puttiest  kind 
of  a  buckle." 

"  But  you're  a  blockhead — a  great,  good  blockhead.  That's 
just  what  you  are,"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  laughing  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"  Well,  ye  can  whittle  any  sort  of  a  head  out  of  a  block," 
said  Jim  imperturbably. 

"  Let's  have  done  with  joking,"  said  the  tailoress  solemnly. 

"I  hain't  beenjokin',"  said  Jim.  "I'm  in  'arnest.  I 
been  thinkin'  o'  ye  ever  sence  the  town-meetin'.  I  been 
kinder  livin'  on  yer  looks.  I've  dreamt  about  ye  nights;  an' 
when  I've  be'n  helpin'  Benedict,  I  took  some  o'  my  pay, 
thinkin'  I  was  pleasin'  ye.  I  couldn't  help  hopin';  an'  now, 
when  I  come  to  ye  so,  an'  tell  ye  jest  how  the  land  lays,  ye 
git  rampageous,  or  tell  me  I'm  jokin'.  '  Twon't  be  no  joke 
if  Jim  Fenton  goes  away  from  this  house  feelin'  that  the  only 
woman  he  ever  seen  as  he  thought  was  wuth  a  row  o'  pins 
feels  herself  better  nor  he  is." 

Miss  Butterworth  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  trotted  her  knees 
nervously.  She  felt  that  Jim  was  really  in  earnest — that  he 


96  SEVENOAKS. 

thoroughly  respected  her,  and  that  behind  his  rough  exterioi 
there  was  as  true  a  man  as  she  had  ever  seen  j  but  the  life  to 
which  he  would  introduce  her,  the  gossip  to  which  she  would 
be  subjected  by  any  intimate  connection  with  him,  and  the  up 
rooting  of  the  active  social  life  into  which  the  routine  of  her 
daily  labor  led  her,  would  be  a  great  hardship.  Then  there 
was  another  consideration  which  weighed  heavily  with  her. 
[n  her  room  were  the  memorials  of  an  early  affection  and  the 
disappointment  of  a  life. 

"  Mr.  Fenton,"  she  said,  looking  up— 
"Jest  call  me  Jim." 

"Well,  Jim — "  and  Miss  Butterworth  smiled  through  tear 
ful  eyes — "  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  once  engaged  to  be 
married." 

"  Sho  !     You  don't  say  !  " 
"  Yes,  and  I  had  everything  ready." 
"  Now,  you  don't  tell  me  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  only  man  I  ever  loved  died — died  a  week 
before  the  day  we  had  set." 

"  It  must  have  purty  near  finished  ye  off." 
"Yes,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  die  myself." 
"  Well,  now,  Miss  Butterworth,  if  ye  s'pose  that  Jim  Fen- 
ton  wouldn't  bring  that  man  to  life  if  he  could,  and  go  to 
your  weddin'  singin'  hallelujer,   you  must  think  he's  meaner 
nor  a  rat.     But  ye  know  he's  dead,  an'  ye  never  can  see  him 
no  more.    He's  a  goner,  an*  ye're  all  alone,  an'  here's  a  man 
as' 11  take  care  on  ye  fur  him ;  an'  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
if  he  was  a  reasomble  man  he'd  feel  obleeged  for  what  I'm 
doin'." 

Miss  Butterworth  could  not  help  smiling  at  Jim's  earnest 
ness  and  ingenuity,  but  his  proposition  was  so  sudden  and 
strange,  and  she  had  so  long  ago  given  up  any  thought  of  marry 
ing,  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  give  him  an  answer  then, 
unless  she  should  give  him  the  answer  which  he  deprecated. 

"  Jim,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  believe  you  are  a  good  man. 
I  believe  you  are  honorable,  and  that  you  mean  well  toward 


SEVENOAKS.  97 

me ;  but  we  have  been  brought  up  very  differently,  and  the 
life  into  which  you  wish  to  bring  me  would  be  very  strange  to 
me.  I  doubt  whether  I  could  be  happy  in  it." 

Jim  saw  that  it  would  not  help  him  to  press  his  suit  further 
at  that  time,  and  recognized  the  reasonableness  of  her  hesita 
tion.  He  knew  he  was  rough  and  unused  to  every  sort  of 
refinement,  but  he  also  knew  that  he  was  truthful,  and  honor 
able,  and  faithful ;  and  with  trust  in  his  own  motives  and 
trust  in  Miss  Butterworth's  good  sense  and  discretion,  he 
withheld  any  further  exhibition  of  his  wish  to  settle  the  aifair 
on  the  spot. 

•''Well,  Miss  Butterworth,"  he  said,  rising,  "ye  know  yer 
own  business,  but  there'll  be  a  house,  an*  a  stoop,  an'  a  bu 
reau,  an'  a  little  ladder  for  flowers,  an'  Mike  Conlin  will  draw 
the  lumber,  an'  Benedict  '11  put  it  together,  an'  Jim  Fenton 
'11  be  the  busiest  and  happiest  man  in  a  hundred  mile." 

As  Jim  rose,  Miss  Butterworth  also  stood  up,  and  looked 
up  into  his  face.  Jim  regarded  her  with  tender  admira 
tion. 

"  Do  ye  know  I  take  to  little  things  wonderful,  if  they're 
only  alive  ?  "  said  he.  "  There's  Benedict's  little  boy  !  I  feel 
'im  fur  hours  arter  I've  had  'im  in  my  arms,  jest  because  he's 
alive  an'  little.  An'  I  don't  know — I — I  vow,  I  guess  I  bet 
ter  go  away.  Can  you  git  the  clo'es  made  in  two  days,  so  I 
can  take  'em  home  with  me?  Can't  ye  put  'em  out  round ? 
I'll  pay  ye,  ye  know." 

Miss  Butterworth  thought  she  could,  and  on  that  promise 
Jim  remained  in  Sevenoaks. 

How  he  got  out  of  the  house  he  did  not  remember,  but  he 
went  away  very  much  exalted.  What  he  did  during  those  two 
days  it  did  not  matter  to  him,  so  long  as  he  could  walk  over 
to  Miss  Butterworth's  each  night,  and  watch  her  light  from 
his  cover  in  the  trees. 

Before  the  tailoress  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep  that  night  her 
brisk  and  ready  shears  had  cut  the  cloth  for  the  two  suits  at  a 
venture,  and  in  the  morning  the  work  was  parceled  among  her 
5 


98  SEVENOAKS. 

benevolent  friends,  as  a  work  of  charity  whose  objects  were 
not  to  be  mentioned. 

When  Jim  called  for  the  clothes,  they  were  done,  and  there 
was  no  money  to  be  paid  for  the  labor.  The  statement  of  the 
fact  embarrassed  Jim  more  than  anything  that  had  occurred 
in  his  interviews  with  the  tailoress. 

"  I  sh'll  pay  ye  some  time,  even  if  so  be  that  nothin*  hap 
pens,"  said  he ;  "an*  if  so  be  that  somethin'  does  happen^ 
it'll  be  squar'  any  way.  I  don't  want  no  man  that  I  do  fur 
to  be  beholden  to  workin'  women  for  their  clo'es." 

Jim  took  the  big  bundle  under  his  left  arm,  and,  extending 
his  right  hand,  he  took  Miss  Butterworth's,  and  said :  "  Good 
bye,  little  woman ;  I  sh'll  see  ye  agin,  an'  here's  hopin'.  Don't 
hurt  yerself,  and  think  as  well  of  me  as  ye  can.  I  hate  to  go 
away  an'  leave  every  thing  loose  like,  but  I  s'pose  I  must. 
Yes,  I  don't  like  to  go  away  so" — and  Jim  shook  his  head 
tenderly — "  an'  arter  I  go  ye  mustn't  kick  a  stone  on  the  road 
or  scare  a  bird  in  the  trees,  for  fear  it'll  be  the  heart  that  Jim 
Fenton  leaves  behind  him." 

Jim  departed,  and  Miss  Butterworth  went  up  to  her  room, 
her  eyes  moist  with  the  effect  of  the  unconscious  poetry  of 
his  closing  utterance. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  evening  when  Jim  reached  the  ho 
tel,  and  he  had  hardly  mounted  the  steps  when  the  stage  drove 
up,  and  Mr.  Balfour,  encumbered  with  a  gun,  all  sorts  of 
fishing-tackle  and  a  lad  of  twelve  years,  leaped  out.  He  was 
on  his  annual  vacation ;  and  with  all  the  hilarity  and  hearti 
ness  of  a  boy  let  loose  from  school  greeted  Jim,  whose  irresisti« 
bly  broad  smile  was  full  of  welcome. 

It  was  quickly  arranged  that  Jim  and  Mike  should  go  on 
that  night  with  their  load  of  stores ;  that  Mr.  Balfour  and  his 
boy  should  follow  in  the  morning  with  a  team  to  be  hired  for 
the  occasion,  and  that  Jim,  reaching  home  first,  should  return 
and  meet  his  guests  with  his  boat  at  the  landing. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

IN  WHICH   MR.    BELCHER  VISITS   NEW    YORK,    AND   BECOMES    THE 
PROPRIETOR  OF    "  PALGRAVE'S   FOLLY." 

THE  shadow  of  a  mystery  hung  over  Sevenoaks  for  -many 
months.  Handbills  advertising  the  fugitives  were  posted  in 
all  directions  throughout  the  country,  but  nothing  came  of 
them  but  rumors.  The  newspapers,  far  and  near,  told  the 
story,  but  it  resulted  in  nothing  save  such  an  airing  of  the 
Sevenoaks  poor-house,  and  the  county  establishment  con 
nected  with  the  same,  that  Tom  Buffum,  who  had  lived  for 
several  years  on  the  border-land  of  apoplexy,  passed  suddenly 
over,  and  went  so  far  that  he  never  returned  to  meet  the  offi 
cial  inquiry  into  his  administration.  The  Augean  stables 
were  cleansed  by  the  Hercules  of  public  opinion ;  and  with 
the  satisfied  conscience  and  restored  self-complacency  pro 
cured  by  this  act,  the  people  at  last  settled  down  upon  the 
conviction  that  Benedict  and  his  boy  had  shared  the  fate  of 
old  Tilden — that  they  had  lost  themselves  in  the  distan* 
forest,  and  met  their  death  alike  beyond  help  and  discovery. 

Mr.  Belcher  found  himself  without  influence  in  the  adjust 
ment  of  the  new  administration.  Sevenoaks  turned  the  cold 
shoulder  to  him.  Nobody  went  to  him  with  the  reports  that 
connected  him  with  the  flight  and  fate  of  the  crazed  inventor, 
yet  he  knew,  through  instincts  which  men  of  his  nature  often 
possess  in  a  remarkable  degree,  that  he  was  deeply  blamed  for 
the  causes  of  Benedict's  misfortunes.  It  has  already  been 
hinted  that  at  first  he  was  suspected  of  knowing  guiltily  more 
about  the  disappearance  of  the  fugitives  than  he  would  be 
willing  to  tell,  but  there  were  only  a  few  minds  in  which  the 
suspicion  was  long  permitted  to  linger.  When  the  first  ex« 

99 


ioo  SEVENOAKS. 

citement  passed  away  and  men  began  to  think,  it  was  impossi* 
We  for  them  to  imagine  motives  sufficiently  powerful  to  in 
duce  the  rich  proprietor  to  pursue  a  lunatic  pauper  to  hig 
death. 

Mr.  Belcher  never  had  encouraged  the  neighborly  ap 
proaches  which,  in  an  emergency  like  this,  might  have  given 
him  comfort  and  companionship.  Recognizing  no  equals  in 
Sevenoaks — measuring  his  own  social  position  by  the  depth 
of  his  purse  and  the  reach  of  his  power — he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  dispensing  his  society  as  largess  to  the  humble 
villagers.  To  recognize  a  man  upon  the  street,  and  speak  to 
him  in  a  familiar  way,  was  to  him  like  the  opening  of  his 
purse  and  throwing  the  surprise  of  a  dollar  into  a  beggar's 
hat.  His  courtesies  were  charities ;  his  politeness  was  a 
boon  ;  he  tossed  his  jokes  into  a  crowd  of  dirty  employes  as 
he  would  toss  a  handful  of  silver  coin.  Up  to  this  time 
he  had  been  sufficient  unto  himself.  By  money,  by  petty 
revenges,  by  personal  assumption,  he  had  managed  to  retain 
his  throne  for  a  long  decade ;  and  when  he  found  his  power 
partly  ignored  and  partly  defied,  and  learned  that  his  personal 
courtesies  were  not  accepted  at  their  old  value,  he  not  only 
began  to  feel  lonesome,  but  he  grew  angry.  He  held  hot 
discussions  with  his  image  in  the  mirror  night  after  night,  in 
his  lonely  library,  where  a  certain  measure  which  had  once 
seemed  a  distant  possibility  took  shape  more  and  more  as  a 
purpose.  In  some  way  he  would  revenge  himself  upon  the 
people  of  the  town.  Even  at  a  personal  sacrifice,  he  would 
pay  them  off  for  their  slight  upon  him ;  and  he  knew  there 
was  no  way  in  which  he  could  so  effectually  do  this  as  by 
leaving  them.  He  had  dreamed  many  times,  as  he  rapidly 
accumulated  his  wealth,  of  arriving  at  a  point  where  he  could 
treat  his  splendid  home  as  a  summer  resort,  and  take  up  his 
residence  in  the  great  city  among  those  of  his  own  kind.  He 
had  an  uneasy  desire  for  the  splendors  of  city  life,  yet  his  in 
terests  had  always  held  him  to  Sevenoaks,  and  he  had  con 
tented  himself  there  simply  because  he  had  his  own  w*  ^~* 


SEVENO4KS.  loi 

was  accounted  "the  principal  citizen."  '  His  village  splen« 
dors  were  without  competition.  His  will  was  law.  His  self- 
complacency,  fed  and  flourishing  in  his  country  home,  had 
taken  the  place  of  society;  but  this  had  ceased  to  be  all-suffi 
cient,  even  before  the  change  occurred  in  th$  atmosphere 
around  him. 

It  was  six  months  after  the  reader's  first  introduction  to 
him  that,  showily  dressed  as  he  always  was,  he  took  his  place 
before  his  mirror  for  a  conversation  with  the  striking-looking 
person  whom  he  saw  reflected  there. 

"Robert  Belcher,  Esquire,"  said  he,  "are  you  played  out? 
Who  says  played  out  ?  Did  you  address  that  question  to  me, 
sir  ?  Am  I  the  subject  of  that  insulting  remark  ?  Do  you 
dare  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den  ?  Withdraw  the  dagger  that 
you  have  aimed  at  my  breast,  or  I  will  not  hold  myself  re- 
sponsible  for  the  consequences.  Played  out,  with  a  million 
dollars  in  your  pocket?  Played  out,  with  wealth  pouring  in 
in  mighty  waves  ?  Whose  name  is  Norval  still  ?  Whose  are 
these  Grampian  Hills  ?  In  yonder  silent  heavens  the  stars 
still  shine,  printing  on  boundless  space  the  words  of  golden 
promise.  Will  you  leave  Sevenoaks  ?  Will  you  go  to  yonder 
metropolis,  and  there  reap,  in  honor  and  pleasure,  the  re 
wards  of  your  enterprise  ?  Will  you  leave  Sevenoaks  howling 
in  pain  ?  Will  you  leave  these  scurvy  ministers  to  whine  for 
their  salaries  and  whine  to  empty  air  ?  Ye  fresh  fields  and 
pastures  new,  I  yield,  I  go,  I  reside !  I  spurn  the  dust  of 
Sevenoaks  from  my  feet.  I  hail  the  glories  of  the  distant 
mart.  I  make  my  bow  to  you,  sir.  You  ask  my  pardon  ?  It 
is  well!  Go!" 

The  next  morning,  after  a  long  examination  of  his  affairs, 
in  conference  with  his  confidential  agent,  and  the  announce 
ment  to  Mrs.  Belcher  that  he  was  about  to  start  for  New  York 
on  business,  Phipps  took  him  and  his  trunk  on  a  drive  of 
twenty  miles,  to  the  northern  terminus  of  a  railroad  line 
which,  with  his  connections,  would  bear  him  to  the  city  of  hig 
hopes. 


1  It  is  astonishing  how  much  room  a  richly  dressed  snob  can 
occupy  in  a  railway  car  without  receiving  a  request  to  occupy 
less,  or  endangering  the  welfare  of  his  arrogant  eyes.  Mr. 
Belcher  occupied  always  two  seats,  and  usually  four.  It  was 
pitiful  to  see  feeble  women  look  at  his  abounding  supply,  then 
look  at  him,  and  then  pass  on.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  humbly 
dressed  men  do  the  same.  It  was  pitiful  to  see  gentlemen  put 
themselves  to  inconvenience  rather  than  dispute  with  him  his 
right  to  all  the  space  he  could  cover  with  his  luggage  and  his 
feet.  Mr.  Belcher  watched  all  these  exhibitions  with  supreme 
satisfaction.  They  were  a  tribute  to  his  commanding  personal 
appearance.  Even  the  conductors  recognized  the  manner  of 
man  with  whom  they  had  to  deal,  and  shunned  him.  He  not 
only  got  the  worth  of  his  money  in  his  ride,  but  the  worth  of 
the  money  of  several  other  people. 

Arriving  at  New  York,  he  went  directly  to  the  Astor,  then 
the  leading  hotel  of  the  city.  The  clerk  not  only  knew  the 
kind  of  man  who  stood  before  him  recording  his  name,  but  he 
knew  him ;  and  while  he  assigned  to  his  betters,  men  and 
women,  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  house,  Mr.  Belcher  secured, 
without  difficulty,  a  parlor  and  bedroom  on  the  second  floor. 
The  arrogant  snob  was  not  only  at  a  premium  on  the  railway 
train,  but  at  the  hotel.  When  he  swaggered  into  the  dining- 
room,  the  head  waiter  took  his  measure  instinctively,  and 
placed  him  as  a  figure-head  at  the  top  of  the  hall,  where  he 
easily  won  to  himself  the  most  careful  and  obsequious  service, 
the  choicest  viands,  and  a  large  degree  of  quiet  observation 
from  the  curious  guestSo  In  the  office,  waiters  ran  for  him, 
hackmen  took  off  their  hats  to  him,  his  cards  were  delivered 
with  great  promptitude,  and  even  the  courtly  principal  deigned 
to  inquire  whether  he  found  everything  to  his  mind.  In 
short,  Mr.  Belcher  seemed  to  find  that  his  name  was  as  dis 
tinctly  "Norval "  in  New  York  as  in  Sevenoaks,  and  that  his 
"Grampian  Hills"  were  movable  eminences  that  stood 
around  and  smiled  upon  him  wherever  he  went. 

Retiring  to  his  room  to  em'oy  in  quiet  his  morning  cigar 


SEVENOAKS.  103 

and  to  look  over  the  papers,  his  eye  was  attracted,  among  the 
"personals,"  to  an  item  which  read  as  follows: 

"  Col.  Robert  Belcher,  the  rich  and  well-known  manufac* 
turer  of  Sevenoaks,  and  the  maker  of  the  celebrated  Belcher 
rifle,  has  arrived  in  town,  and  occupies  a  suite  of  apartments 
at  the  Astor. ' ' 

His  title,  he  was  aware,  had  been  manufactured,  in  order 
to  give  the  highest  significance  to  the  item,  by  the  enterprising 
reporter,  but  it  pleased  him.  The  reporter,  associating  his 
name  with  fire-arms,  had  chosen  a  military  title,  in  accordance 
with  the  custom  which  makes  "commodores"  of  enterprising 
landsmen  who  build  and  manage  lines  of  marine  transporta 
tion  and  travel,  and  "bosses"  of  men  who  control  elec 
tion  gangs,  employed  to  dig  the  dirty  channels  to  political 
success. 

He  read  it  again  and  again,  and  smoked,  and  walked  to  his 
glass,  and  coddled  himself  with  complacent  fancies.  He  felt 
that  all  doors  opened  themselves  widely  to  the  man  who  had 
money,  and  the  skill  to  carry  it  in  his  own  magnificent  way. 
In  the  midst  of  pleasant  thoughts,  there  came  a  rap  at  the 
door,  and  he  received  from  the  waiter's  little  salver  the  card 
of  his  factor,  "Mr.  Benjamin  Talbot."  Mr.  Talbot  had  read 
the  "personal"  which  had  so  attracted  and  delighted  him 
self,  and  had  made  haste  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  principal 
from  whose  productions  he  was  coining  a  fortune. 

Mr.  Talbot  was  the  man  of  all  others  whom  Mr.  Belcher 
desired  to  see ;  so,  with  a  glance  at  the  card,  he  told  the  waiter 
promptly  to  show  the  gentleman  up. 

No  man  in  the  world  understood  Mr.  Belcher  better  than 
the  quick-witted  and  obsequious  factor.  He  had  been  in  the 
habit,  during  the  ten  years  in  which  he  had  handled  Mr. 
Belcher's  goods,  of  devoting  his  whole  time  to  the  proprietor 
while  that  person  was  on  his  stated  visits  to  the  city.  He 
took  him  to  his  club  to  dine ;  he  introduced  him  to  congenial 
spirits ;  he  went  to  the  theater  with  him  ;  he  went  with  him 
to  grosser  resorts,  which  do  not  need  to  be  named  in  these 


io4  SEVENOAKS. 

pages ;  he  drove  with  him  to  the  races ;  he  took  him  to  lunch 
at  suburban  hotels,  frequented  by  fast  men  who  drove  fast 
horses ;  he  ministered  to  every  coarse  taste  and  vulgar  desire 
possessed  by  the  man  whose  nature  and  graceless  caprices  he 
so  carefully  studied.  He  did  all  this  at  his  own  expense,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  kept  his  principal  out  of  the  clutches  of 
gamblers  and  sharpers.  It  was  for  his  interest  to  be  of  actual 
use  to  the  man  whose  desires  he  aimed  to  gratify,  and  so  to 
guard  and  shadow  him  that  no  deep  harm  would  come  to  him. 
It  was  for  his  interest  to  keep  Mr.  Belcher  to  himself,  while 
he  gave  him  the  gratifications  that  a  coarse  man  living  in  the 
country  so  naturally  seeks  among  the  opportunities  and  excite 
ments  of  the  city. 

There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  Mr.  Talbot  had  never 
done.  He  had  never  taken  Mr.  Belcher  to  his  home.  Mrs. 
Talbot  did  not  wish  to  see  him,  and  Mr.  Talbot  did  not  wish 
to  have  her  see  him.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Belcher,  after  his 
business  was  completed,  wanted  something  besides  a  quiet 
dinner  with  women  and  children.  His  leanings  were  not 
toward  virtue,  but  toward  safe  and  half-reputable  vice ;  and 
exactly  what  he  wanted  consistent  with  his  safety  as  a  business 
man,  Mr.  Talbot  wished  to  give  him.  To  nurse  his  good 
will,  to  make  himself  useful,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  essential 
to  the  proprietor,  and  to  keep  him  sound  and  make  him  last, 
was  Mr.  Talbot's  study  and  his  most  determined  ambition. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  seated  in  a  huge  arm  chair,  with  his  back 
to  the  door  and  his  feet  in  another  chair,  when  the  second  rap 
came,  and  Mr.  Talbot,  with  a  radiant  smile,  entered. 

"Well,  Toll,  my  boy,"  said  the  proprietor,  keeping  his 
seat  without  turning,  and  extending  his  left  hand.  "  How- 
are  you  ?  Glad  to  see  you.  Come  round  to  pay  your  re 
spects  to  the  Colonel,  eh?  How's  business,  and  how's  your 
folks?" 

Mr.  Talbot  was  accustomed  to  this  style  of  greeting  from 
his  principal,  and,  responding  heartily  to  it  and  the  inquiries 
accompanying  it,  he  took  a  seat.  With  hat  and  cane  in  hand 


SEVENOAKS.  105 

he  sat  on  his  little  chair,  showing  his  handsome  teeth,  twirl 
ing  his  light  mustache,  and  looking  at  the  proprietor  with  his 
keen  gray  eyes,  his  whole  attitude  and  physiognomy  express 
ing  the  words  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  spoken  them:  "I'm 
your  man  j  now,  what  are  you  up  to  ?  " 

"Toll,"  said  Mr.  Belcher  deliberately,  "I'm  going  to  sur 
prise  you." 

"You  usually  do,"  responded  the  factor,  laughing. 

"I  vow,  I  guess  that's  true!  You  fellows,  without  any 
blood,  are  apt  to  get  waked  up  when  the  old  boys  come  in 
from  the  country.  Toll,  lock  the  door. ' ' 

Mr.  Talbot  locked  the  door  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Sevenoaks  be  hanged  1  "  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"Certainly." 

"  It's  a  one-horse  town." 

"  Certainly.  Still,  I  have  been  under  the  impression  that 
you  owned  the  horse." 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  the  horse  is  played  out." 

"  Hasn't  he  been  a  pretty  good  horse,  and  earned  you  all 
he  cost  you?" 

"Well,  I'm  tired  with  living  where  there  is  so  much  infer 
nal  babble,  and  meddling  with  other  people's  business.  If  I 
sneeze,  the  people  think  there's  been  an  earthquake ;  and 
when  I  whistle,  they  call  it  a  hurricane." 

"But  you're  the  king  of  the  roost,"  said  Talbot. 

"Yes;  but  a  man  gets  tired  being  king  of  the  roost,  and 
longs  for  some  rooster  to  fight.' 

Mr.  Talbot  saw  the  point  toward  which  Mr.  Belcher  was 
drifting,  and  prepared  himself  for  it.  He  had  measured  his 
chances  for  losing  his  business,  and  when,  at  last,  his  princi 
pal  came  out  with  the  frank  statement,  that  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  come  to  New  York  to  live,  he  was  all  ready  with 
his  overjoyed  "No  !  "  and  with  his  smooth  little  hand  to  be 
stow  upon  Mr.  Belcher's  heavy  fist  the  expression  of  his  glad 
ness  and  his  congratulations. 

"Good  thing,  isn't  it,  Toll?" 

5* 


106  SEVENOAKS. 

"Excellent!" 

"And  you'll  stand  by  me,  Toll?" 

"  Of  course  I  will ;  but  we  can't  do  just  the  old  things,  yon 
know.  We  must  be  highly  respectable  citizens,  and  keep 
ourselves  straight." 

"  Don't  you  undertake  to  teach  your  grandmother  how  to 
suck  eggs,"  responded  the  proprietor  with  a  huge  laugh,  in 
which  the  factor  joined.  Then  he  added,  thoughtfully:  "I 
haven't  said  a  word  to  the  woman  about  it,  and  she. may  make 
a  fuss,  but  she  knows  me  pretty  well ;  and  there'll  be  the  big 
gest  kind  of  a  row  in  the  town;  but  the  fact  is,  Toll,  I'm  at 
the  end  of  my  rope  there.  I'm  making  money  hand  over 
hand,  and  I've  nothing  to  show  for  it.  I've  spent  about 
everything  I  can  up  there,  and  nobody  sees  it.  I  might  just 
as  well  be  buried ;  and  if  a  fellow  can't  show  what  he  gets, 
what's  the  use  of  having  it?  I  haven't  but  one  life  to  live, 
and  I'm  going  to  spread,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it  right  here  in 
New  York ;  and  if  I  don't  make  some  of  your  nabobs  open 
their  eyes,  my  name  isn't  Robert  Belcher." 

Mr.  Belcher  had  exposed  motives  in  this  little  speech  that 
he  had  not  even  alluded  to  in  his  addresses  to  his  image  in  the 
mirror.  Talbot  saw  that  something  had  gone  wrong  in  the 
town,  that  he  was  playing  off  a  bit  of  revenge,  and,  above  all, 
that  the  vulgar  desire  for  display  was  more  prominent  among 
Mr.  Belcher's  motives  for  removal  than  that  person  suspected. 

"I  have  a  few  affairs  to  attend  to,"  said  Mr.  Talbot,  rising, 
*'  but  after  twelve  o'clock  I  will  be  at  your  service  while  you 
remain  in  the  city.  We  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  a 
house  to  suit  you,  I  am  sure,  and  you  can  get  everything  done 
in  the  matter  of  furniture  at  the  shortest  notice.  I  will  hunt 
houses  with  you  for  a  week,  if  you  wish." 

"Well,  by-by,  Toll,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  giving  him  his  left 
hand  again.  "I'll  be  'round  at  twelve." 

Mr.  Talbot  went  out,  but  instead  of  going  to  his  office, 
went  straight  home,  and  surprised  Mrs.  Talbot  by  his  sudden 
reappearance. 


SEVENOAKS.  107 

lt  What  on  earth!5' — said  she,  looking  up  from  a  bit  of 
embroidery  on  which  she  was  dawdling  away  her  morning. 

"  Kate,  who  do  you  suppose  is  coming  to  New  York  to  live  ?" 

"The  Great  Mogul." 

"  Yes,  the  Great  Mogul — otherwise,  Colonel  Robert  Bel 
cher." 

"  Heaven  help  us  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"Well,  and  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Oh,  my !  my!  my  !  my  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Talbot,  her 
possessive  pronoun  stumbling  and  fainting  away  without 
reaching  its  object.  "Must  we  have  that  bear  in  the  house  ? 
Does  it  pay  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  Kate,  it  pays,"  said  Mr.  Talbot. 

"Well,  I  suppose  that  settles  it." 

The  factor  and  his  wife  were  very  quick  to  comprehend  the 
truth  that  a  principal  out  of  town,  and  away  from  his  wife 
and  family,  was  a  very  different  person  to  deal  with  from  one 
in  the  town  and  in  the  occupation  of  a  grand  establishment, 
with  his  dependents.  They  saw  that  they  must  make  them- 
aelves  essential  to  him  in  the  establishment  of  his  social  posi 
tion,  and  that  they  must  introduce  him  and  his  wife  to  their 
friends.  Moreover,  they  had  heard  good  reports  of  Mrs.  Bel 
cher,  and  had  the  impression  that  she  would  be  either  an  in 
offensive  or  a  valuable  acquisition  to  their  circle  of  friends. 

There  was  nothing  to  do,  therefore,  but  to  make  a  dinner 
party  in  Mr.  Belcher's  honor.  The  guests  were  carefully 
selected,  and  Mrs.  Talbot  laid  aside  her  embroidery  and  wrote 
her  invitations,  while  Mr.  Talbot  made  his  next  errand  at  the 
office  of  the  leading  real  estate  broker,  with  whom  he  con 
cluded  a  private  arrangement  to  share  in  the  commission  of 
any  sale  that  might  be  made  to  the  customer  whom  he  pro 
posed  to  bring  to  him  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Half  an- 
hour  before  twelve,  he  was  in  his  own  office,  and  in  the  thirty 
minutes  that  lay  between  his  arrival  and  the  visit  of  the  pro 
prietor,  he  had  arranged  his  affairs  for  any  absence  that  would 
be  necessary. 


io8  SEVENOAKS. 

When  Mr.  Belcher  came  in,  looking  from  side  to  side,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  owned  all  he  saw,  even  the  clerks,  who 
respectfully  bowed  to  him  as  he  passed,  he  found  Mr.  Talbot 
waiting ;  also,  a  bunch  of  the  costliest  cigars. 

t(l  remembered  your  weakness,  you  see,"  said  Talbot. 

"  Toll,  you're  a  jewel,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  drawing  out  one 
of  the  fragrant  rolls  and  lighting  it. 

"  Now,  before  we  go  a  step,"  said  Talbot,  "you  must  agree 
to  come  to  my  house  to-morrow  night  to  dinner,  and  meet 
some  of  my  friends.  When  you  come  to  New  York,  you'll 
want  to  know  somebody." 

"  Toll,  I  tell  you  you're  a  jewel." 

"And  you'll  come?" 

"  Well,  you  know  I'm  not  rigged  exactly  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  and,  faith,  I'm  not  up  to  it,  but  I  suppose  all  a  man 
has  to  do  is  to  put  on  a  stiff  upper  lip,  and  take  it  as  it  comes." 

"I'll  risk  you  anywhere." 

"  All  right  !  I'll  be  there." 

"  Six  o'clock,  sharp ; — and  now  let's  go  and  find  a  broker. 
I  know  the  best  one  in  the  city,  and  I'll  show  you  the  inside 
of  more  fine  houses  before  night  than  you  have  ever  seen.'T 

Talbot  took  the  proprietor's  arm  and  led  him  to  a  carriage 
in  waiting.  Then  he  took  him  to  Pine  street,  and  introduced 
him,  in  the  most  deferential  manner,  to  the  broker  who  held 
half  of  New  York  at  his  disposal,  and  knew  the  city  as  he 
knew  his  alphabet. 

The  broker  took  the  pair  of  house-hunters  to  a  private  room, 
and  unfolded  a  map  of  the  city  before  them.  On  this  he 
traced,  with  a  well-kept  finger-nail,  a  series  of  lines, — like 
those  fanciful  isothermal  definitions  that  embrace  the  regions 
of  perennial  summer  on  the  range  of  the  Northern  Pacific 
Railroad, — within  which  social  respectability  made  its  home. 
Within  certain  avenues  and  certain  streets,  he  explained  that 
it  was  a  respectable  thing  to  live.  Outside  of  these  arbitrary 
boundaries,  nobody  who  made  any  pretense  to  respectability 
should  buy  a  house.  The  remainder  of  the  city  was  for  th« 


SEVEN  OAKS.  109 

vulgar — craftsmen,  petty  shopkeepers,  salaried  men,  and  the 
shabby-genteel.  He  insisted  that  a  wealthy  man,  making  an 
entrance  upon  New  York  life,  should  be  careful  to  locate  him 
self  somewhere  upon  the  charmed  territory  which  he  defined. 
He  felt  in  duty  bound  to  say  this  to  Mr.  Belcher,  as  he  was  a 
stranger ;  and  Mr.  Belcher  was,  of  course,  grateful  for  the  in 
formation. 

Then  he  armed  Mr.  Talbot,  as  Mr.  Belcher's  city  friend 
and  helper,  with  a  bundle  of  permits,  with  which  they  set  off 
upon  their  quest. 

They  visited  a  dozen  houses  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
carefully  chosen  in  their  succession  by  Mr.  Talbot,  who  was 
as  sure  of  Mr.  Belcher's  tastes  as  he  was  of  his  own.  One 
street  was  too  quiet,  one  was  too  dark ;  one  house  was  too 
small,  and  one  was  too  tame ;  one  house  had  no  stable,  an 
other  had  too  small  a  stable.  At  last,  they  came  out  upon 
Fifth  avenue,  and  drove  up  to  a  double  front,  with  a  stable  al 
most  as  ample  and  as  richly  appointed  as  the  house  itself.  It 
had  been  built,  and  occupied  for  a  year  or  two,  by  an  ex 
ploded  millionaire,  and  was  an  elephant  upon  the  hands  of 
his  creditors.  Robert  Belcher  was  happy  at  once.  The  mar- 
velous  mirrors,  the  plate  glass,  the  gilded  cornices,  the  grand 
staircase,  the  glittering  chandeliers,  the  evidences  of  lavish 
expenditure  in  every  fixture,  and  in  all  the  finish,  excited  him 
like  wine. 

"  Now  you  talk !"  said  he  to  the  smiling  factor ;  and  as  he 
went  to  the  window,  and  saw  the  life  of  the  street,  rolling  by 
in  costly  carriages,  or  sweeping  the  sidewalks  with  shining 
silks  and  mellow  velvets,  he  felt  that  he  was  at  home.  Here 
he  could  see  and  be  seen.  Here  his  splendors  could  be  ad 
vertised.  Here  he  could  find  an  expression  for  his  wealth,  by 
the  side  of  which  his  establishment  at  Sevenoaks  seemed  too 
mean  to  be  thought  of  without  humiliation  and  disgust.  Here 
was  a  house  that  gratified  his  sensuous  nature  through  and 
through,  and  appealed  irresistibly  to  his  egregious  vanity 
He  did  not  know  that  the  grand  and  gaudy  establishment  bore 


no  SEVENOAKS. 

the  name  of  "Palgrave's  Folly,"  and,  probaoly,  it  would 
have  made  no  difference  with  him  if  he  had.  It  suited  him, 
and  would,  in  his  hands,  become  Belcher's  Glory. 

The  sum  demanded  for  the  place,  though  very  large,  did 
not  cover  its  original  cost,  and  in  this  fact  Mr.  Belcher  took 
great  comfort.  To  enjoy  fifty  thousand  dollars,  which  some 
body  else  had  made,  was  a  charming  consideration  with  him, 
and  one  that  did  much  to  reconcile  him  to  an  expenditure  far 
beyond  his  original  purpose. 

When  he  had  finished  his  examination  of  the  house,  he  re 
turned  to  his  hotel,  as  business  hours  were  past,  and  he  could 
.nake  no  further  headway  that  day  in  his  negotiations.  The 
more  he  thought  of  the  house,  the  more  uneasy  he  became. 
Somebody  might  have  seen  him  looking  at  it,  and  so  reached 
the  broker  first,  and  snatched  it  from  his  grasp.  He  did  not 
know  that  it  had  been  in  the  market  for  two  years,  waiting 
for  just  such  a  man  as  himself. 

Talbot  was  fully  aware  of  the  state  of  Mr.  Belcher's  mind, 
<ind  knew  that  if  he  did  not  reach  him  early  the  next  morning, 
the  proprietor  would  arrive  at  the  broker's  before  him.  Ac 
cordingly,  when  Mr.  Belcher  finished  his  breakfast  that  morn 
ing,  he  found  his  factor  waiting  for  him,  with  the  information 
that  the  broker  would  not  be  in  his  office  for  an  hour  and  a- 
half,  and  that  there  was  time  to  look  further,  if  further  search 
were  desirable.  He  hoped  that  Mr.  Belcher  would  not  be  in 
a  hurry,  or  take  any  step  that  he  would  ultimately  regret. 
Mr.  Belcher  assured  him  that  he  knew  what  he  wanted  when 
he  saw  it,  and  had  no  fears  about  the  matter,  except  that 
somebody  might  anticipate  him. 

"You  have  determined,  then,  to  buy  the  house  at  the 
price?"  said  Talbot. 

"Yes;  I  shall  just  shut  my  eyes  and  swallow  the  whole 
thing." 

"Would  you  like  to  get  it  cheaper?" 

"  Of  course ! " 

"Then,  perhaps  you  had  better  leave  the  talking  to  me," 


SEVENOAKS.  in 

said  Talbot.     "  These  fellows  all  have  a  price  that  they  ask, 
and  a  smaller  one  that  they  will  take." 

"That's  one  of  the  tricks,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  go  ahead." 

They  had  a  long  talk  about  business,  and  then  Talbot  went 
out,  and,  after  an  extended  interview  with  the  broker,  sent  a 
messenger  for  Mr.  Belcher.  When  that  gentleman  came  in, 
he  found  that  Talbot  had  bought  the  house  for  ten  thousand 
dollars  less  than  the  price  originally  demanded.  Mr.  Belcher 
deposited  a  handsome  sum  as  a  guaranty  of  his  good  faith,  and 
ordered  the  papers  to  be  made  out  at  once. 

After  their  return  to  the  hotel,  Mr.  Talbot  sat  down  to  a 
table,  and  went  through  a  long  calculation. 

"It  will  cost  you,  Mr.  Belcher,"  said  the  factor,  delibe 
rately,  "  at  least  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to  furnish  that 
house  satisfactorily." 

Mr.  Belcher  gave  a  long  whistle. 

"At  least  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  and  I  doubt  whether 
you  get  off  for  less  than  thirty  thousand." 

"Well,  I'm  in  for  it,  and  I'm  going  through,"  said  Mr. 
Belcher. 

"Very  well,"  responded  Talbot,  "now  let's  go  to  the 
best  furnisher  we  can  find.  I  happen  to  know  the  man  who  is  at 
the  top  of  the  style,  and  I  suppose  the  best  thing — as  you  and 
I  don't  know  much  about  the  matter — is  to  let  him  have  his 
own  way,  and  hold  him  responsible  for  the  results." 

"All  right,"  said  Belcher;   "show  me  the  man." 

They  found  the  arbiter  of  style  in  his  counting-room.  Mr. 
Talbot  approached  him  first,  'and  held  a  long  private  conver 
sation  with  him.  Mr.  Belcher,  in  his  self-complacency, 
waited,  fancying  that  Talbot  was  representing  his  own  impor 
tance  and  the  desirableness  of  so  rare  a  customer,  and  endea 
voring  to  secure  reasonable  prices  on  a  large  bill.  In  reality, 
he  was  arranging  to  get  a  commission  out  of  the  job  for 
himself. 


U2  SEVENOAKS. 

If  it  be  objected  to  Mr.  Talbot' s  mode  of  giving  assistance 
to  his  country  friends,  that  it  savored  of  mercenariness, 
amounting  to  villainy,  it  is  to  be  said,  on  his  behalf,  that  he 
was  simply  practicing  the  morals  that  Mr.  Belcher  had  taught 
him.  Mr.  Belcher  had  not  failed  to  debauch  or  debase  the 
moral  standard  of  every  man  over  whom  he  had  any  direct 
influence.  If  Talbot  had  practiced  his  little  game  upon 
any  other  man,  Mr.  Belcher  would  have  patted  his  shoulder 
and  told  him  he  was  a  "jewel."  So  much  of  Mr.  Belcher's 
wealth  had  been  won  by  sharp  and  more  than  doubtful  prac 
tices,  that  that  wealth  itself  stood  before  the  world  as  a  pre 
mium  on  rascality,  and  thus  became,  far  and  wide,  a  demo-^ 
ralizing  influence  upon  the  feverishly  ambitious  and  the  young. 
Besides,  Mr.  Talbot  quieted  what  little  conscience  he  had  in 
the  matter  by  the  consideration  that  his  commissions  were 
drawn,  not  from  Mr.  Belcher,  but  from  the  profits  which 
others  would  make  out  of  him,  and  the  further  consideration 
that  it  was  no  more  than  right  for  him  to  get  the  money  back 
that  he  had  spent,  and  was  spending,  for  his  principal's 
benefit. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  introduced,  and  the  arbiter  of  style  con 
versed  learnedly  of  Tuscan,  Pompeiian,  Elizabethan,  Louis 
Quatorze,  buhl,  marqueterie,  &c.,  &c.,  till  the  head  of  the- 
proprietor,  to  whom  all  these  words  were  strangers,  and  all 
his  talk  Greek,  was  thrown  into  a  hopeless  muddle. 

Mr.  Belcher  listened  to  him  as  long  as  he  could  do  so  with 
patience,  and  then  brought  him  to  a  conclusion  by  a  slap  upon 
his  knee. 

"Come,  now!"  said  he,  "you  understand  your  business, 
and  I  understand  mine.  If  you  were  to  take  up  guns  and 
gutta-percha,  I  could  probably  talk  your  head  off,  but  I  don't 
know  anything  about  these  things.  What  I  want  is  something 
right.  Do  the  whole  thing  up  brown.  Do  you  understand 
that?" 

The  arbiter  of  style  smiled  pityingly,  and  admitted  that  he 
comprehended  his  customer. 


SEVENOAKS.  113 

It  was  at  last  arranged  that  the  latter  should  make  a  study 
of  the  house,  and  furnish  it  according  to  his  best  ability,  with 
in  a  specified  sum  of  expenditure  and  a  specified  period 
of  time ;  and  then  the  proprietor  took  his  leave. 

Mr.  Belcher  had  accomplished  a  large  amount  of  business 
within  two  days,  but  he  had  worked  according  to  his  habit. 
The  dinner  party  remained,  and  this  was  the  most  difficult 
business  that  he  had  ever  undertaken,  yet  he  had  a  strong  de 
sire  to  see  how  it  was  done.  He  learned  quickly  what  he 
undertook,  and  he  had  already  "discounted,"  to  use  his  own 
vord,  a  certain  amount  of  mortification  connected  with  the 


CHAPTER    IX. 

MRS.  TALBOT  GIVES    HER    LITTLE    DINNER    PARTY,  AND    MR.   BEL 
CHER  MAKES  AN  EXCEEDINGLY  PLEASANT  ACQUAINTANCE. 

MRS.  TALBOT  had  a  very  dear  friend.  She  had  been  hei 
iear  friend  ever  since  the  two  had  roomed  together  at  board- 
mg-school.  Sometimes  she  had  questioned  whether  in  reality 
Mrs.  Helen  Dillingham  was  her  dear  friend,  or  whether  the 
particular  friendship  was  all  on  the  other  side ;  but  Mrs.  Dill 
ingham  had  somehow  so  manipulated  the  relation  as  always  tt* 
appear  to  be  the  favored  party.  When,  therefore,  the  dinnei 
was  determined  upon,  Mrs.  Dillingham's  card  of  invitation 
was  the  first  one  addressed.  She  was  a  widow  and  alone.  She 
complemented  Mr.  Belcher,  who  was  also  alone. 

Exactly  the  position  Mrs.  Dillingham  occupied  in  socie 
ty,  it  would  be  hard  to  define.  Everybody  invited  her, 
and  yet  everybody,  without  any  definite  reason,  considered 
her  a  little  "off  color."  She  was  beautiful,  she  was  ac 
complished,  she  talked  wonderfully  well,  she  was  au  fait  in 
art,  literature,  society.  She  was  superficially  religious,  and 
she  formed  the  theater  of  the  struggle  of  a  black  angel  and  a 
white  one,  neither  of  whom  ever  won  a  complete  victory,  or 
held  whatever  advantage  he  gained  for  any  considerable 
length  of  time.  Nothing  could  be  finer  than  Mrs.  Dilling 
ham  in  her  fine  moods ;  nothing  coarser  when  the  black  angel 
was  enjoying  one  of  his  victories,  and  the  white  angel  had  sat 
down  to  breathe.  It  was  the  impression  given  in  these  latter 
moments  that  fixed  upon  her  the  suspicion  that  she  was  not 
quite  what  she  ought  to  be.  The  flowers  bloomed  where  she 
walked,  but  there  was  dust  on  them.  The  cup  she  handed  to 
114 


SEVENOAKS.  1x5 

her  friends  was  pure  to  the  eye,  but  it  had  a  muddy  taste. 
She  was  a  whole  woman  in  sympathy,  power,  beauty,  and 
sensibility,  and  yet  one  felt  that  somewhere  within  she  har* 
bored  a  devil — a  refined  devil  in  its  play,  a  gross  one  when  it 
had  the  woman  at  unresisting  advantage. 

Next  came  the  Schoonmakers,  an  elderly  gentleman  and  his 
wife,  who  dined  out  a  great  deal,  and  lived  on  the  ancient  re 
spectability  of  their  family.  They  talked  much  about  "the 
old  New  Yorkers,"  and  of  the  inroads  and  devastations  of 
the  parvenu.  They  were  thoroughly  posted  on  old  family 
estates  and  mansions,  the  intermarriages  of  the  Dutch  aristo 
cracy,  and  the  subject  of  heraldry.  Mr.  Schoonmaker  made 
i  hobby  of  old  Bibles,  and  Mrs.  Schoonmaker  of  old  lace. 
The  two  hobbies  combined  gave  a  mingled  air  of  erudition 
and  gentility  to  the  pair  that  was  quite  impressive,  while  their 
unquestionably  good  descent  was  a  source  of  social  capital  to 
all  of  humbler  origin  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  draw  them 
to  their  tables. 

Next  came  the  Tunbridges.  Mr.  Tunbridge  was  the  presi 
dent  of  a  bank,  and  Mrs.  Tunbridge  was  the  president  of  Mr. 
lunbridge — a  large,  billowy  woman,  who  "  brought  him  his 
money,"  according  to  the  speech  of  the  town.  Mr.  Tun 
bridge  had  managed  his  trust  with  great  skill,  and  was  glad  at 
any  time,  and  at  any  social  sacrifice,  to  be  brought  into  con 
tact  with  men  who  carried  large  deposit  accounts. 

Next  in  order  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cavendish.  Mr.  Caven 
dish  was  a  lawyer — a  hook-nosed,  hawk-eyed  man,  who  knew 
a  little  more  about  everything  than  anybody  else  did,  and 
was  celebrated  in  the  city  for  successfully  managing  the  most 
intractable  cases,  and  securing  the  most  princely  fees.  If  a 
rich  criminal  were  brought  into  straits  before  the  law,  he  aU 
ways  sent  for  Mr.  Cavendish.  If  the  unprincipled  managers 
of  a  great  corporation  wished  to  ascertain  just  how  closely  be 
fore  the  wind  they  could  sail  without  being  swamped,  they 
consulted  Mr.  Cavendish.  He  was  everywhere  accounted  a 
great  lawyer  by  those  who  estimated  acuteness  to  be  above 


Ii6  SEVENOAKS. 

astuteness,  strategy  better  than  an  open  and  fair  fight,  and 
success  more  to  be  desired  than  justice. 

It  would  weary  the  reader  to  go  through  with  a  description 
of  Mrs.  Talbot's  dinner  party  in  advance.  They  were  such 
people  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Talbot  naturally  drew  around  them. 
The  minister  was  invited,  partly  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
partly  to  occupy  Mr.  Schoonmaker  on  the  subject  of  Bibles. 
The  doctor  was  invited  because  Mrs.  Talbot  was  fond  of  him, 
and  because  he  always  took  "such  an  interest  in  the  fa 
mily.'1 

When  Mr.  Belcher  arrived  at  Talbot's  beautiful  but  quiet 
house,  the  guests  had  all  assembled,  and,  clothing  their  faces 
with  that  veneer  of  smile  which  hungry  people  who  are  about 
to  dine  at  another  man's  expense  feel  compelled  to  wear  in  the 
presence  of  their  host,  they  were  chatting  over  the  news  of 
the  day. 

It  is  probable  that  the  great  city  was  never  the  scene  of  a 
personal  introduction  that  gave  more  quiet  amusement  to  an 
assemblage  of  guests  than  that  of  the  presentation  of  Mr. 
Belcher.  That  gentleman's  first  impression  as  he  entered  the 
room  was  that  Talbot  had  invited  a  company  of  clergymen 
to  meet  him.  His  look  of  surprise  as  he  took  a  survey  of  thfl 
assembly  was  that  of  a  knave  who  found  himself  for  the  first 
time  in  good  company  \  but  as  he  looked  from  the  gentlemen 
to  the  ladies,  in  their  gay  costumes  and  display  of  costly 
jewelry,  he  concluded  that  they  could  not  be  the  wives  of  cler 
gymen.  The  quiet  self-possession  of  the  group,  and  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  was  not  en  regie  in  the  matter  of  dress,  op 
pressed  him ;  but  he  was  bold,  and  he  knew  that  they  knew 
that  he  was  worth  a  million  of  dollars. 

The  "  stiff  upper  lip  "  was  placed  at  its  stiffest  in  the  midst 
of  his  florid  expanse  of  face,  as,  standing  still,  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  he  greeted  one  after  another  to  whom  he  wan 
presented,  in  a  way  peculiarly  his  own. 

He  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of  lifting  his  hat,  in  cour 
tesy  to  man  or  woman.  Even  the  touching  its  brim  with  hit 


SEVEN  OAKS.  117 

fingers  had  degenerated  into  a  motion  that  began  with  a  flourish 
toward  it,  and  ended  with  a  suave  extension  of  his  palm  to* 
ward  the  object  of  his  obeisance.  On  this  occasion  he  quite 
forgot  that  he  had  left  his  hat  in  the  hall,  and  so,  assuming 
that  it  still  crowned  his  head,  he  went  through  with  eight  or 
ten  hand  flourishes  that  changed  the  dignified  and  self-con 
tained  assembly  into  a  merry  company  of  men  and  women, 
who  would  not  have  been  willing  to  tell  Mr.  Belcher  what 
they  were  laughing  at. 

The  last  person  to  whom  he  was  introduced  was  Mrs.  Dil- 
lingham,  the  lady  who  stood  nearest  to  him — so  near  that  the 
hand  flourish  seemed  absurd  even  to  him,  and  half  died  in  the 
impulse  to  make  it.  Mrs.  Dillingham,  in  her  black  and  her 
magnificent  diamonds,  went  down  almost  upon  the  floor  in 
the  demonstration  of  her  admiring  and  reverential  courtesy, 
and  pronounced  the  name  of  Mr.  Belcher  with  a  musical  dis 
tinctness  of  enunciation  that  arrested  and  charmed  the  ears 
of  all  who  heard  it.  It  seemed  as  if  every  letter  were  swim 
ming  in  a  vehicle  compounded  of  respect,  veneration,  and 
affection.  The  consonants  flowed  shining  and  smooth  like 
gold-fish  through  a  globe  of  crystal  illuminated  by  the  sun. 
The  tone  in  which  she  spoke  the  name  seemed  to  rob  it  of  all 
ttilgar  associations,  and  to  inaugurate  it  as  the  key-note  of  a 
fine  social  symphony. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  charmed,  and  placed  by  it  at  his  ease.  It 
wrought  upon  him  and  upon  the  company  the  effect  which  she 
designed.  She  was  determined  he  should  not  only  show  at 
his  best,  but  that  he  should  be  conscious  of  the  favor  she  had 
won  for  him. 

Before  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Talbot  made  a  little 
speech  to  his  guests,  ostensibly  to  give  them  the  good  news 
that  Mr.  Belcher  had  purchased  the  mansion,  built  and  for 
merly  occupied  by  Mr.  Palgrave,  but  really  to  explain  that  he 
had  caught  him  in  town  on  business,  and  taken  him  at  the 
disadvantage  of  distance  from  his  evening  dress,  though,  of 
course,  he  did  not  say  it  in  such  and  so  many  words.  The 


Ii8  SEVENOAKS. 

speech  was  unnecessary.     Mrs.  Dillingham  had  told  the  whole 
story  in  her  own  unapproachable  way. 

When  dinner  was  announced  Mr.  Belcher  was  requested  to 
lead  Mrs.  Talbot  to  her  seat,  and  was  himself  placed  between 
his  hostess  and  Mrs.  Dillingham.  Mrs.  Talbot  was  a  stately, 
beautiful  woman,  and  bore  off  her  elegant  toilet  like  a  queen. 
In  her  walk  into  the  dining-room,  her  shapely  arm  rested 
upon  the  proprietor's,  and  her  brilliant  eyes  looked  into  his 
with  an  expression  that  flattered  to  its  utmost  all  the  fool  there 
was  in  him.  There  was  a  little  rivalry  between  the  "  dear 
friends ;  "  but  the  unrestricted  widow  was  more  than  a  match 
for  the  circumspect  and  guarded  wife,  and  Mr.  Belcher  was 
delighted  to  find  himself  seated  side  by  side  with  the  former. 

He  had  not  talked  five  minutes  with  Mrs.   Dillingham  be 
fore  he  knew  her.     The  exquisite  varnish  that  covered  hei 
person  and  her  manners  not  only  revealed,  but  made  beauti 
ful,  the  gnarled  and  stained  wood  beneath.     Underneath  tht 
polish  he  saw  the  element  that  allied  her  with  himself.     There 
was  no  subject  upon  which  she  could  not  lead  or  accompany 
him  with  brilliant  talk,  yet  he  felt  that  there  was  a  coarse 
under-current  of  sympathy  by  which  he  could  lead  her,  or  she 
could  lead  him — where  ? 

The  courtly  manners  of  the  table,  the  orderly  courses  that 
came  and  went  as  if  the  domestic  administration  were  some 
automatic  machine,  and  the  exquisite  appointments  of  the 
board,  all  exercised  a  powerful  moral  influence  upon  him; 
and  though  they  did  not  wholly  suppress  him,  they  toned  him 
down,  so  that  he  really  talked  well.  He  had  a  fund  of  small 
wit  and  drollery  that  was  sufficient,  at  least,  for  a  single  din 
ner  ;  and,  as  it  was  quaint  and  fresh,  the  guests  were  not  only 
amused,  but  pleased.  In  the  first  place,  much  could  be  for 
given  to  the  man  who  owned  Palgrave's  Folly.  No  small 
consideration  was  due  to  one  who,  in  a  quiet  country  town, 
had  accumulated  a  million  dollars.  A  person  who  had  the 
power  to  reward  attention  with  grand  dinners  and  splendid 
receptions  was  certainly  not  a  person  to  be  treated  lightly. 


SEVENOAKS.  119 

Mr.  Tunbridge  undertook  to  talk  finance  witn  him,  but 
retired  under  the  laugh  raised  by  Mr.  Belcher's  statement  that 
he  had  been  so  busy  making  money  that  he  had  had  no  time 
to  consider  questions  of  finance.  Mr.  Schoonmaker  and  the 
minister  were  deep  in  Bibles,  and  on  referring  some  question 
to  Mr.  Belcher  concerning  "  The  Breeches  Bible,"  received 
in  reply  the  statement  that  he  had  never  arrived  any  nearer  a 
Breeches  Bible  than  a  pocket  handkerchief  with  the  Lord's 
Prayer  on  it.  Mr.  Cavendish  simply  sat  and  criticised  the 
rest.  He  had  never  seen  anybody  yet  who  knew  anything 
about  finance.  The  Chamber  of  Commerce  was  a  set  of  old 
women,  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  was  an  ass,  and  the 
Chairman  of  the  Committee  of  Ways  and  Means  was  a  person 
he  should  be  unwilling  to  take  as  an  office-boy.  As  for  him, 
he  never  could  see  the  fun  of  old  Bibles.  If  he  wanted  a 
Bible  he  would  get  a  new  one. 

Each  man  had  his  shot,  until  the  conversation  fell  from  the 
general  to  the  particular,  and  at  last  Mr.  Belcher  found  him 
self  engaged  in  the  most  delightful  conversation  of  his  life 
with  the  facile  woman  at  his  side.  He  could  make  no  ap 
proach  to  her  from  any  quarter  without  being  promptly  met. 
She  was  quite  as  much  at  home,  and  quite  as  graceful,  in  ban 
dying  badinage  as  in  expatiating  upon  the  loveliness  of  coun 
try  life  and  the  ritual  of  her  church. 

Mr.  Talbot  did  not  urge  wine  upon  his  principal,  for  he 
saw  that  he  was  excited  and  off  his  guard;  and  when,  at 
length,  the  banquet  came  to  its  conclusion,  the  proprietor 
declined  to  remain  with  the  gentlemen  and  the  supplement 
tary  wine  and  cigars,  but  took  coffee  in  the  drawing-room  with 
the  ladies.  Mrs.  Dillingham's  eye  was  on  Mrs.  Talbot,  and 
when  she  saw  her  start  toward  them  from  her  seat,  she  took 
Mr.  Belcher's  arm  for  a  tour  among  the  artistic  treasures  of 
the  house. 

"My  dear  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Dillingham,  "give  me  the 
privilege  of  showing  Mr.  Belcher  some  of  your  beautiful 
things." 


120  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  responded  Mrs.  Talbot,  her  face  flushing, 
"and  don't  forget  yourself,  my  child,  among  the  rest." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  pressed  Mr.  Belcher's  arm,  an  action  which 
said  :  "  Oh,  the  jealous  creature !" 

They  went  from  painting  to  painting,  and  sculpture  to 
sculpture,  and  then,  over  a  cabinet  of  bric-a-brac,  she  quietly 
led  the  conversation  to  Mr.  Belcher's  prospective  occupation 
of  the  Palgrave  mansion.  She  had  nothing  in  the  world  to 
do.  She  should  be  so  happy  to  assist  poor  Mrs.  Belcher  in 
the  adjustment  of  her  housekeeping.  It  would  be  a  real  plea 
sure  to  her  to  arrange  the  furniture,  and  do  anything  to  help 
that  quiet  country  lady  in  inaugurating  the  splendors  of  city 
life.  She  knew  all  the  caterers,  all  the  confectioners,  all  the 
modistes,  all  the  city  ways,  and  all  the  people  worth  know 
ing.  She  was  willing  to  become,  for  Mrs.  Belcher's  sake, 
city-directory,  commissionaire,  adviser,  director,  everything. 
She  would  take  it  as  a  great  kindness  if  she  could  be  per 
mitted  to  make  herself  useful. 

All  this  was  honey  to  the  proprietor.  How  Mrs.  Dilling 
ham  would  shine  in  his  splendid  mansion  !  How  she  would 
illuminate  his  landau  !  How  she  would  save  his  quiet  wife, 
not  to  say  himself,  from  the  gaucheries  of  which  both  would 
be  guilty  until  the  ways  of  the  polite  world  could  be  learned ! 
How  delightful  it  would  be  to  have  a  sympathetic  friend 
whose  intelligent  and  considerate  advice  would  be  always 
ready ! 

When  the  gentlemen  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
disturbed  the  confidential  tete-a-tete  of  these  new  friends,  Mrs. 
Dillingham  declared  it  was  time  to  go,  and  Mr.  Belcher  in 
sisted  on  seeing  her  home  in  his  own  carriage. 

The  dinner  party  broke  up  with  universal  hand-shakings 
Mr.  Belcher  was  congratulated  on  his  magnificent  purchase 
and  prospects.     They  would  all  be  happy  to  make  Mrs.   Bel 
cher's  acquaintance,  and  she  really  must  lose  no  time  in  let 
ting  them  know  when  she  would  be  ready  to  receive  visitors. 
Mr.  Belcher  saw  Mrs.   Dillingham  home.      He  held  her 


SEVENOAKS.  121 

pretty  hands  at  parting,  as  if  he  were  an  affectionate  older 
brother  who  was  about  to  sail  on  a  voyage  around  the  world. 
At  last  he  hurriedly  relinquished  her  to  the  man-servant  who 
had  answered  her  summons,  then  ran  down  the  steps  and 
drove  to  his  hotel. 

Mounting  to  his  rooms,  he  lit  every  burner  in  his  parlor, 
and  then  surveyed  himself  in  the  mirror. 

"  Where  did  she  find  it,  old  boy  ?  Eh  ?  Where  did  she 
find  it  ?  Was  it  the  figure  ?  Was  it  the  face  ?  Hang  the 
swallow  tails !  Must  yoa,  sir,  come  to  such  a  humiliation  ? 
How  are  the  mighty  fallen  !  The  lion  of  Seven  oaks  in  the 
skin  of  an  ass  !  But  it  must  be.  Ah  !  Mrs.  Belcher — Mrs. 
Belcher — Mrs.  Belcher  I  You  are  good,  but  you  are  lumpy. 
You  were  pretty  once,  but  you  are  no  Mrs.  Dillingham.  By 
the  gods!  Wouldn't  she  swim  around  my  house  like  a  queen  I 
Far  in  azure  depths  of  space,  I  behold  a  star  !  Its  light 
shines  for  me.  It  doesn  t  ?  It  must  not?  Who  says  that? 
Did  you  address  that  remark  to  me,  sir  ?  By  the  way,  how 
do  you  think  you  got  along  ?  Did  you  make  a  fool  of  your 
self,  or  did  you  make  a  fool  of  somebody?  Honors  are  easy. 
Let  Robert  Belcher  alone !  Is  Toll  making  money  a  little 
too  fast?  What  do  you  chink?  Perhaps  you  will  settle  that 
question  by  and  by.  You  will  keep  him  while  you  can  use 
him.  Then  Toll,  my  boy,  you  can  drift.  In  the  meantime, 
splendor !  and  in  the  meantime  let  Sevenoaks  howl,  and  learn 
to  let  Robert  Belcher  alcne." 

From  these  dizzy  heignts  of  elation  Mr.  Belcher  descended 
to  his  bed  and  his  heavy  dreams,  and  the  next  morning  found 
him  whirling  away  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles  an  hour,  but  not 
northward.  Whither  was  he  going  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 

flTHICH  TELLS  HOW  A   LAWYER  SPENT   HIS  VACATION   IN   CAMP, 

AND  TOOK  HOME  A  SPECIMEN  OF  GAME  THAT  HE  HAD 

NEVER  BEFORE  FOUND  IN  THE  WOODS. 

IT  was  a  bright  moonlight  night  when  Mike  Conlin  and 
Jim  started  off  from  Sevenoaks  for  home,  leaving  Mr.  Balfour 
and  his  boy  to  follow.  The  old  horse  had  a  heavy  load,  and 
it  was  not  until  an  hour  past  midnight  that  Mike's  house  was 
reached.  There  Jim  made  the  new  clothes,  comprising  a 
complete  outfit  for  his  boarders  at  Number  Ten,  into  a  con 
venient  package,  and  swinging  it  over  his  shoulders,  started 
for  his  distant  cabin  on  foot.  Mike,  after  resting  himself  and 
his  horse,  was  to  follow  in  the  morning  with  the  tools  and 
stores,  so  as  to  arrive  at  the  river  at  as  early  an  hour  as  Mr. 
Balfour  could  complete  the  journey  from  Sevenoaks,  with  his 
lighter  load  and  swifter  horses. 

Jim  Fenton,  who  had  lain  still  for  several  days,  and  was 
full  of  his  schemes  for  Mr.  Balfour  and  his  proteges  in  camp, 
and  warm  with  his  memories  of  Miss  Butterworth,  simply  glo 
ried  in  his  moonlight  tramp.  The  accumulated  vitality  of  his 
days  of  idleness  was  quite  enough  to  make  all  the  fatigues  be 
fore  him  light  and  pleasant.  At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morn 
ing  he  stood  by  the  side  of  his  boat  again.  The  great  still 
ness  of  the  woods,  responding  in  vivid  color  to  the  first  kisses 
of  the  frost,  half  intoxicated  him.  No  world-wide  wanderer, 
returning  after  many  years  to  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
could  have  felt  more  exulting  gladness  than  he,  as  he  shoved 
his  boat  from  the  bank  and  pushed  up  the  shining  stream  in 
the  face  of  the  sun.  . 
122 


SEVENOAKS.  123 

Benedict  and  Harry  had  not  been  idle  during  nis  absence. 
A.  deer  had  been  shot  and  dressed ;  trout  had  been  caught 
and  saved  alive ;  a  cave  had  been  dug  for  the  preservation  of 
vegetables ;  and  when  Jim  shouted,  far  down  the  stream,  to 
announce  his  approach,  there  were  three  happy  persons  on 
shore,  waiting  to  welcome  him — Turk  being  the  third,  and  ap 
parently  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  not  as  much  a  hu 
man  being  as  any  of  the  party.  Turk  added  the  "  tiger  "  *:o 
Harry's  three  cheers,  and  Jim  was  as  glad  as  a  boy  when  his 
boat  touched  the  shore,  and  he  received  the  affectionate 
greetings  of  the  party. 

.A  choice  meal  was  nearly  in  readiness  for  him,  but  not  a 
mouthful  would  he  taste  until  he  had  unfolded  his  treasures, 
and  displayed  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  Mr.  Benedict  and  the 
lad  the  comfortable  clothing  he  had  brought  for  them. 

"Take  'em  to  Number  Ten  and  put  'em  on,"  said  Jim. 
0  I'm  a  goin*  to  eat  with  big  folks  to-day,  if  clo'es  can  make 
'em.  Them's  yer  stockin's  and  them's  yer  boots,  and  them's 
yer  indigoes  and  them's  yer  clo'es." 

Jim's  idea  of  the  word  "indigoes"  was,  that  it  drew  its 
meaning  partly  from  the  color  of  the  articles  designated,  and 
partly  from  their  office.  They  were  blue  undergoes — in  other 
words,  blue  flannel  shirts. 

Jim  sat  down  and  waited.  He  saw  that,  while  Harry  was 
hilarious  over  his  good  fortune,  Mr.  Benedict  was  very  silent 
and  humble.  It  was  twenty  minutes  before  Harry  reappeared ; 
and  when  he  came  bounding  toward  Jim,  even  Turk  did  not 
know  him.  Jim  embraced  him,  and  could  not  help  feeling 
that  he  had  acquired  a  certain  amount  of  property  in  the 
lad. 

When  Mr. Benedict  came  forth  from  the  little  cabin,  and  found 
Jim  chaffing  and  petting  his  boy,  he  was  much  embarrassed. 
He  could  not  speak,  but  walked  directly  past  the  pair,  and 
went  out  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  with  his  eyes  averted. 

Jim  comprehended  it  all.     Leaving  Harry,  he  went  up  to 
his  guest,  and  placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.     "  Will  ye 


124  SEVEN  OAKS. 

furgive  me,  Mr.  Benedict?  I  didn't  go  fur  to  make  it  hard 
fur  ye." 

"Jim,"  said  Mr.  Benedict,  struggling  to  retain  his  compo 
sure,  "  I  can  never  repay  your  overwhelming  kindness,  and 
the  fact  oppresses  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Jim,  "I  s'pose  I  don't  make  'lowance  enough 
fur  the  difference  in  folks.  Ye  think  ye  oughter  pay  fur  this 
sort  o'  thing,  an'  I  don't  want  no  pay.  I  git  comfort  enough 
outen  it,  anyway." 

Benedict  turned,  took  and  warmly  pressed  Jim's  hand,  and 
then  they  went  back  to  their  dinner.  After  they  had  eaten, 
and  Jim  had  sat  down  to  his  pipe,  he  told  his  guests  that  they 
were  to  have  visitors  that  night — a  man  from  the  city  and  his 
little  boy — and  that  they  would  spend  a  fortnight  with  them. 
The  news  alarmed  Mr.  Benedict,  for  his  nerves  were  still 
weak,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  be  reconciled  to 
the  thought  of  intrusion  upon  his  solitude ;  but  Jim  reassured 
him  by  his  enthusiastic  accounts  of  Mr.  Balfour,  and  Harry 
was  overjoyed  with  the  thought  of  having  a  companion  in  the 
strange  lad. 

"  I  thought  I'd  come  home  an*  git  ye  ready,"  said  Jim ; 
"fur  I  knowed  ye'd  feel  bad  to  meet  a  gentleman  in  yer  old 
poor-house  fixin's.  Burn  'em  or  bury  'em  as  soon  as  I'm 
gone.  I  don't  never  want  to  see  them  things  agin." 

Jim  went  off  again  down  the  river,  and  Mr.  Benedict  and 
Harry  busied  themselves  in  cleaning  the  camp,  and  preparing 
Number  Ten  for  the  reception  of  Mr.  Balfour  and  his  boy, 
having  previously  determined  to  take  up  their  abode  with  Jim 
for  the  winter.  The  latter  had  a  hard  afternoon.  He  was 
tired  with  his  night's  tramp,  and  languid  with  loss  of  sleep. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  landing  he  found  Mr.  Balfour  waiting. 
He  had  passed  Mike  Conlin  on  the  way,  and  even  while  they 
were  talking  the  Irishman  came  in  sight.  After  half-an  hour 
of  busy  labor,  the  goods  and  passengers  were  bestowed,  Mike 
was  paid  for  the  transportation,  and  the  closing  journeys  of 
tve  day  were  begun. 


SEVENOAKS.  125 

When  Jim  had  made  half  of  the  weary  row  up  the  river,  he 
ran  into  a  little  cove  to  rest  and  wipe  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead.  Then  he  informed  Mr.  Balfour  that  he  was  not 
alone  in  the  camp,  and,  in  his  own  inimitable  way,  having 
first  enjoined  the  strictest  secrecy,  he  told  the  story  of  Mr. 
Benedict  and  his  boy. 

"Benedict  will  hunt  and  fish  with  ye  better  nor  I  can," 
said  he,  "an'  he's  a  better  man  nor  I  be  any  way;  but  I'm 
at  yer  sarvice,  and  ye  shall  have  the  best  time  in  the  woods 
that  I  can  give  ye." 

Then  he  enlarged  upon  the  accomplishments  of  Benedict's 
boy. 

"He  favors  yer  boy  a  little,"  said  Jim,  eyeing  the  lad 
closely.  "  Dress  'em  alike,  and  they  wouldn't  be  a  bad  pair 
o'  brothers." 

Jim  did  not  recognize  the  germs  of  change  that  existed  in 
his  accidental  remark,  but  he  noticed  that  a  shade  of  pain 
•passed  over  the  lawyer's  face. 

"  Where  is  the  other  little  feller  that  ye  used  to  brag  over, 
Mr.  Balfour?"  inquired  Jim. 

"  He's  gone,  Jim ;  I  lost  him.     He  died  a  year  ago." 

Jim  had  no  words  with  which  to  meet  intelligence  of  this 
character,  so  he  did  not  try  to  utter  any ;  but,  after  a  minute 
of  silence,  he  said:  "That's  what  floors  me.  Them  dies 
that's  got  everything,  and  them  lives  that's  got  nothin' — • 
lives  through  thick  and  thin.  It  seems  sort  o'  strange  to  me 
that  the  Lord  runs  everything  so  kind  o'  car 'less  like,  when 
there  ain't  nobody  to  bring  it  to  his  mind." 

Mr.  Balfour  made  no  response,  and  Jim  resumed  his  oars. 
But  for  the  moon,  it  would  have  been  quite  dark  when  Num 
ber  Nine  was  reached,  but,  once  there,  the  fatigues  of  the  jour 
ney  were  forgotten.  It  was  Thede  Balfour's  first  visit  to  the 
woods,  and  he  was  wild  with  excitement.  Mr.  Benedict  and 
Harry  gave  the  strangers  a  cordial  greeting.  The  night  was 
frosty  and  crisp,  and  Jim  drew  his  boat  out  of  the  water,  and 
permitted  his  stores  to  remain  in  it  through  the  night.  A 


126  SEVENOAKS. 

hearty  supper  prepared  them  all  for  sleep,  and  Jim  led  his 
city  friends  to  Number  Ten,  to  enjoy  their  camp  by  them 
selves.  A  camp-fire,  recently  lighted,  awaited  them,  and, 
with  its  flames  illuminating  the  weird  scenes  around  them, 
they  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  To  the  devoutly  disposed,  there 
is  no  silence  that  seems  so  deeply  hallowed  as  that  which  per 
vades  the  forest  on  that  holy  day.  No  steamer  plows  the 
river ;  no  screaming,  rushing  train  profanes  the  stillness  j  the 
beasts  that  prowl,  and  the  birds  that  fly,  seem  gentler  than  on 
other  days  \  and  the  wilderness,  with  its  pillars  and  arches, 
and  aisles,  becomes  a  sanctuary.  Prayers  that  no  ears  can 
hear  but  those  of  the  Eternal ;  psalms  that  win  no  responses 
except  from  the  echoes ;  worship  that  rises  from  hearts  un 
encumbered  by  care,  and  undistracted  by  pageantry  and  dress 
— all  these  are  possible  in  the  woods ;  and  the  great  Being  to 
whom  the  temples  of  the  world  are  reared  cannot  have  failed 
to  find,  in  ten  thousand  instances,  the  purest  offerings  in 
lonely  camps  and  cabins. 

They  had  a  delightful  and  bountiful  breakfast,  and,  at  its 
close,  they  divided  themselves  naturally  into  a  double  gioup. 
The  two  boys  and  Turk  went  off  by  themselves  to  watch  the 
living  things  around  them,  while  the  men  remained  together 
by  the  camp-fire. 

Mr.  Balfour  drew  out  a  little  pocket-Testament,  and  was 
soon  absorbed  in  reading.  Jim  watched  him,  as  a  hungry 
dog  watches  a  man  at  his  meal,  and  at  last,  having  grown 
more  and  more  uneasy,  he  said : 

"Give  us  some  o'  that,  Mr.  Balfour." 

Mr.  Balfour  looked  up  and  smiled,  and  then  read  to  him 
the  parable  of  the  talents. 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  it,'  said  Jim,  at  the  conclu 
sion,  "but  it  seems  to  me  the  man  was  a  little  rough  on  the 
feller  with  one  talent.  'Twas  a  mighty  small  capital  to  start 
with,  an'  he  didn't  give  'im  any  chance  to  try  it  over;  but 
what  bothers  me  the  most  is  about  the  man's  trav'lin'  into  a 


SEVENOAKS.  127 

fur  country.  They  hadn't  no  chance  to  talk  with  'im  about 
it,  and  git  his  notions.  It  Stan's  to  reason  that  the  feller  with 
one  talent  would  think  his  master  was  stingy,  and  be  riled 
over  it." 

"  You  must  remember,  Jim,  that  all  he  needed  was  to  ask 
for  wisdom  in  order  to  receive  it,"  said  Mr.  Benedict. 

"  No  ;  the  man  that  traveled  into  a  fur  country  stan's  for 
the  Almighty,  and  he'd  got  out  o'  the  way.  He'd  jest  gi'n 
these  fellers  his  capital,  and  quit,  and  left  'em  to  go  it  alone. 
They  couldn't  go  arter  'im,  and  he  couldn't  'a'  hearn  a  word 
they  said.  He  did  what  he  thought  was  all  right,  and  didn't 
want  to  be  bothered.  I  never  think  about  prayin'  till  I  git 
into  a  tight  place.  It  stan's  to  reason  that  the  Lord  don't 
want  people  comin'  to  him  to  do  things  that  they  can  do 
theirselves.  I  shouldn't  pray  for  breath  ;  I  sh'd  jest  h'ist  the 
winder.  If  I  wanted  a  bucket  o'  water,  I  sh'd  go  for  it.  If 
a  man's  got  common  sense,  and  a  pair  o'  hands,  he  hain't  no 
business  to  be  botherin'  other  folks  till  he  gits  into  what  he 
can't  git  out  of.  When  he's  squeezed,  then  in  course  he'll 
squeal.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  makes  a  sort  of  a  spooney  of  a 
man  to  be  always  askin'  for  what  he  can  git  if  he  tries.  It 
the  feller  that  only  had  one  talent  had  brushed  round,  he 
could  'a'  made  a  spec  on  it,  an'  had  somethin'  to  show  fur  it, 
but  he  jest  hid  it.  I  don't  stan'  up  for  'im.  I  think  he  was 
meaner  nor  pusly  not  to  make  the  best  on't,  but  he  didn't 
need  to  pray  for  sense,  for  the  man  didn't  want  'im  to  use  no 
more  nor  his  nateral  stock,  an'  he  knowed  if  he  used  that 
he'd  be  all  right." 

"But  we  are  told  to  pray,  Jim,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "and 
assured  that  it  is  pleasant  to  the  Lord  to  receive  our  petitions. 
We  are  even  told  to  pray  for  our  daily  bread." 

"Well,  it  can't  mean  jest  that,  fur  the  feller  that  don't 
work  for't  don't  git  it,  an'  he  hadn't  oughter  git  it.  If  he 
don't  lift  his  hands,  but  jest  sets  with  his  mouth  open,  he  gits 
mostly  flies.  The  old  birds,  with  a  nest  full  o'  howlin'  young 
ones,  might  go  on,  I  s'pose,  pickin'  up  grasshoppers  till  the 


128  SEVENOAKS. 

cows  come  home,  an*  feedin'  'em,  but  they  don't.  They  jest 
poke  'em  out  o'  the  nest,  an'  larn  'em  to  fly  an'  pick  up  their 
own  livin' j  an'  that's  what  makes  birds  on  'em.  They  pray 
mighty  hard  fur  their  daily  bread,  I  tell  ye,  and  the  way  the 
old  birds  answer  is  jest  to  poke  'em  out,  and  let  'em  slide.  I 
don't  see  many  prayin'  folks,  an'  I  don't  see  many  folks  any 
way ;  but  I  have  a  consait  that  a  feller  can  pray  so  much  an' 
do  so  little,  that  he  won't  be  nobody.  He'll  jest  grow  weaker 
an'  weaker  all  the  time." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  laughing,  and  turning  to 
Mr.  Benedict,  "but  we've  had  the  exposition  of  our  Scrip 
ture." 

The  former  had  always  delighted  to  hear  Jim  talk,  and 
never  lost  an  opportunity  to  set  him  going ;  but  he  did  not 
know  that  Jim's  exposition  of  the  parable  had  a  personal 
motive.  Mr.  Benedict  knew  that  it  had,  and  was  very  seri 
ous  over  it.  His  nature  was  weak  in  many  respects.  His 
will  was  weak ;  he  had  no  combativeness ;  he  had  a  wish  to 
lean.  He  had  been  baffled  and  buffeted  in  the  world.  He 
had  gone  down  into  the  darkness,  praying  all  the  way ;  and 
now  that  he  had  come  out  of  it,  and  had  so  little  society ;  now 
that  his  young  life  was  all  behind  him,  and  so  few  earthly 
hopes  beckoned  him  on,  he  turned  with  a  heart  morbidly  reli 
gious  to  what  seemed  to  him  the  only  source  of  comfort  open 
to  him.  Jim  had  watched  him  with  pain.  He  had  seen  him, 
from  day  to  day,  spending  his  hours  alone,  and  felt  that  prayer 
formed  almost  the  staple  of  his  life.  He  had  seen  him  will 
ing  to  work,  but  knew  that  his  heart  was  not  in  it.  He  was 
not  willing  to  go  back  into  the  world,  and  assert  his  place 
among  men.  The  poverty,  disease,  and  disgrace  of  his  for 
mer  life  dwelt  in  his  memory,  and  he  shrank  from  the  conflicts 
and  competitions  which  would  be  necessary  to  enable  him  to 
work  out  better  results  for  himself. 

Jim  thoroughly  believed  that  Benedict  was  religiously  dis 
eased,  and  that  he  never  could  become  a  man  again  until  he 
had  ceased  to  live  so  exclusively  in  the  spiritual  world.  He 


SEVENOAKS.  129 

contrived  all  possible  ways  to  keep  him  employed.  He  put 
responsibility  upon  him.  He  stimulated  him  with  considera 
tions  of  the  welfare  of  Harry.  He  disturbed  him  in  his  re 
tirement.  He  contrived  fatigues  that  would  induce  sound 
sleep.  To  use  his  own  language,  he  had  tried  to  cure  him  of 
"loppm',"  but  with  very  unsatisfactory  results. 

Benedict  comprehended  Jim's  lesson,  and  it  made  an  im 
pression  upon  him ;  but  to  break  himself  of  his  habit  of  thought 
and  life  was  as  difficult  as  the  breaking  of  morbid  habits  always 
is.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  weak  man,  and  saw  that  he  had 
never  fully  developed  that  which  was  manliest  within  him. 
He  saw  plainly,  too,  that  his  prayers  would  not  develop  it, 
and  that  nothing  but  a  faithful,  bold,  manly  use  of  his  powers 
could  accomplish  the  result.  He  knew  that  he  had  a  better 
brain,  and  a  brain  better  furnished,  than  that  of  Robert  Bel 
cher,  yet  he  had  known  to  his  sorrow,  and  well-nigh  to  his 
destruction,  that  Robert  Belcher  could  wind  him  around  his 
finger.  Prayer  had  never  saved  him  from  this,  and  nothing 
could  save  him  but  a  development  of  his  own  manhood.  Was 
he  too  old  for  hope  ?  Could  he  break  away  from  the  delights 
of  his  weakness,  and  grow  into  something  stronger  and  bet 
ter?  Could  he  so  change  the  attitude  of  his  soul  that  it  should 
cease  to  be  exigent  and  receptive,  and  become  a  positive,  self- 
poised,  and  active  force  ?  He  sighed  when  these  questions 
came  to  him,  but  he  felt  that  Jim  had  helped  him  in  many 
practical  ways,  and  could  help  him  still  further. 

A  stranger,  looking  upon  the  group,  would  have  found  it  a 
curious  and  interesting  study.  Mr.  Balfour  was  a  tall,  lithe 
man,  with  not  a  redundant  ounce  of  flesh  on  him.  He  was 
as  straight  as  an  arrow,  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  fine  head  that 
gave  evidence  in  its  contour  of  equal  benevolence  and  force, 
and  was  a  practical,  fearless,  straightforward,  true  man.  He 
enjoyed  humor,  and  though  he  had  a  happy  way  of  evoking  it 
from  others,  possessed  or  exhibited  very  little  himself.  Jim 
was  better  than  a  theater  to  him.  He  spent  so  much  of  his 
time  in  the  conflicts  of  his  profession,  that  in  his  vacations  he 

6* 


1 3o  SF.VENOAKS. 

simply  opened  heart  and  mind  to  entertainment.  A  shrewd, 
frank,  unsophisticated  nature  was  a  constant  feast  to  him,  and 
though  he  was  a  keen  sportsman,  the  woods  would  have  had 
few  attractions  without  Jim. 

Mr.  Benedict  regarded  him  with  profound  respect,  as  a 
man  who  possessed  the  precise  qualities  which  had  been  de 
nied  to  himself — self-assertion,  combativeness,  strong  will, 
and  "push."  Even  through  Benedict's  ample  beard,  a  good 
reader  of  the  human  face  would  have  detected  the  weak  chin, 
while  admiring  the  splendid  brow,  silken  curls,  and  handsome 
eyes  above  it.  He  was  a  thoroughly  gentle  man,  and,  curi 
ously  enough,  attracted  the  interest  of  Mr.  Balfour  in  conse 
quence  of  his  gentleness.  The  instinct  of  defense  and 
protection  to  everything  weak  and  dependent  was  strong 
within  the  lawyer ;  and  Benedict  affected  him  like  a  woman. 
It  was  easy  for  the  two  to  become  friends,  and  as  Mr.  Balfour 
grew  familiar  with  the  real  excellences  of  his  new  acquain 
tance,  with  his  intelligence  in  certain  directions,  and  his 
wonderful  mechanical  ingenuity,  he  conceived  just  as  high  a 
degree  of  respect  for  him  as  he  could  entertain  for  one  who 
was  entirely  unfurnished  with  those  weapons  with  which  the 
battles  of  life  are  fought. 

It  was  a  great  delight  to  Jim  to  see  his  two  friends  get  along 
so  well  together,  particularly  as  he  had  pressing  employment 
on  his  hands,  in  preparing  for  the  winter.  So,  after  the  first 
day,  Benedict  became  Mr.  Balfour 's  guide  during  the  fortnight 
which  he  passed  in  the  woods. 

The  bright  light  of  Monday  morning  was  the  signal  for  the 
beginning  of  their  sport,  and  Thede,  who  had  never  thrown 
a  fly,  was  awake  at  the  first  day-light ;  and  before  Jim  had  the 
breakfast  of  venison  and  cakes  ready,  he  had  strung  his  tackle 
and  leaned  his  rod  against  the  cabin  in  readiness  for  his  enter 
prise.  They  had  a  day  of  satisfactory  fishing,  and  brought 
home  half-a-hundred  spotted  beauties  that  would  have  delight 
ed  the  eyes  of  any  angler  in  the  world;  and  when  their 
golden  flesh  stood  open  and  broiling  before  the  fire,  or  hissed 


SEVENOAKS:-  131 

and  sputtered  in  the  frying-pan,  watched  by  the  hungry  and 
admiring  eyes  of  the  fishermen,  they  were  attractive  enough 
to  be  the  food  of  the  gods.  And  when,  at  last,  the  group 
gathered  around  the  rude  board,  with  appetites  that  seemed 
measureless,  and  devoured  the  dainties  prepared  for  them,  the 
pleasures  of  the  day  were  crowned. 

But  all  this  was  comparatively  tame  sport  to  Mr.  Balfour. 
He  had  come  for  larger  game,  and  waited  only  for  the  night 
fall  to  deepen  into  darkness  to  start  upon  his  hunt  for  deer. 
The  moon  had  passed  her  full,  and  would  not  rise  until  after 
the  ordinary  bed-time.  The  boys  were  anxious  to  be  witnesses 
of  the  sport,  and  it  was  finally  concluded,  that  for  once,  at 
least,  they  should  be  indulged  in  their  desire. 

The  voice  of  a  hound  was  never  heard  in  the  woods,  and 
even  the  " still  hunting"  practiced  by  the  Indian  was  never 
resorted  to  until  after  the  streams  were  frozen. 

Jim  had  been  busy  during  the  day  in  picking  up  pine  knots, 
and  digging  out  old  stumps  whose  roots  were  charged  with 
pitch.  These  he  had  collected  and  split  up  into  small  pieces, 
so  that  everything  should  be  in  readiness  for  the  "  float."  As 
soon  as  the  supper  was  finished,  he  brought  a  little  iron 
"Jack,"  mounted  upon  a  standard,  and  proceeded  to  fix  this 
upright  in  the  bow  of  the  boat.  Behind  this  he  placed  a 
square  of  sheet  iron,  so  that  a  deer,  dazzled  by  the  light  of  the 
blazing  pine,  would  see  nothing  behind  it,  while  the  occu 
pants  of  the  boat  could  see  everything  ahead  without  being 
blinded  by  the  light,  of  which  they  could  see  nothing.  Then 
he  fixed  a  knob  of  tallow  upon  the  forward  sight  of  Mr.  Bal 
four 's  gun,  so  that,  projecting  in  front  of  the  sheet  iron 
screen,  it  would  be  plainly  visible  and  render  necessary  only 
the  raising  of  the  breech  to  the  point  of  half-hiding  the  tallow, 
in  order  to  procure  as  perfect  a  range  as  if  it  were  broad  day 
light. 

All  these  preparations  were  familiar  to  Mr.  Balfour,  and, 
leading  his  heavy  shot-gun  with  a  powerful  charge,  he  waited 
impatiently  for  the  darkness. 


rj*  SEVENOAKS. 

At  nine  o'clock,  Jim  said  it  was  time  to  start,  and,  lighting 
his  torch,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  bade 
Mr.  Balfour  take  his  place  in  the  bow,  where  a  board,  placed 
across  the  boat,  made  him  a  comfortable  seat.  The  boys, 
warmly  wrapped,  took  their  places  together  in  the  middle  of 
the  boat,  and,  clasping  one  another's  hands  and  shivering  with 
excitement,  bade  good-night  to  Mr.  Benedict,  who  pushed 
them  from  the  shore. 

The  night  was  still,  and  Jim's  powerful  paddle  urged  the 
little  craft  up  the  stream  with  a  push  so  steady,  strong,  and 
noiseless,  that  its  passengers  might  well  have  imagined  that 
the  unseen  river-spirits  had  it  in  tow.  The  torch  cast  its  long 
glare  into  the  darkness  on  either  bank,  and  made  shadows  so 
weird  and  changeful  that  the  boys  imagined  they  saw  every 
form  of  wild  beast  and  flight  of  strange  bird  with  which  pic 
tures  had  made  them  familiar.  Owls  hooted  in  the  distance. 
A  wild-cat  screamed  like  a  frightened  child.  A  partridge, 
waked  from  its  perch  by  a  flash  of  the  torch,  whirred  off  into 
the  woods. 

At  length,  after  paddling  up  the  stream  for  a  mile,  they 
heard  the  genuine  crash  of  a  startled  animal.  Jim  stopped 
and  listened.  Then  came  the  spiteful  stroke  of  a  deer's  fore 
feet  upon  the  leaves, and  a  whistle  so  sharp,  strong  and  vital, 
that  it  thrilled  every  ear  that  heard  it.  It  was  a  question,  a 
protest,  a  defiance  all  in  one ;  but  not  a  sign  of  the  animal 
could  be  seen.  He  was  back  in  the  cover,  wary  and  watch 
ing,  and  was  not  to  be  tempted  nearer  by  the  light. 

Jim  knew  the  buck,  and  knew  that  any  delay  on  his  account 
would  be  useless. 

"  I  knowed  'im  when  I  hearn  'im  whistle,  an'  he  knowed 
me.  He's  been  shot  at  from  this  boat  more  nor  twenty  times. 
'Not  any  pine-knots  on  my  plate,'  says  he.  'I  seen  'em 
afore,  an*  you  can  pass.'  I  used  to  git  kind  o'  mad  at  'im, 
an'  promise  to  foller  'im,  but  he's  so  'cute,  I  sort  o'  like  'im. 
He  'muses  me." 

While  Jim  waited  and  talked  in  a  low  tone,  the  buck  was 


SEVENOAKS.  133 

evidently  examining  the  light  and  the  craft,  at  his  leisure  and 
at  a  distance.  Then  he  gave  another  lusty  whistle  that  was 
half  snort,  and  bounded  off  into  the  woods  by  leaps  that 
struck  every  foot  upon  the  ground  at  the  same  instant,  and 
soon  passed  beyond  hearing. 

"Well,  the  old  feller's  gone,"  said  Jim,  "  an'  now  I  know 
a  patch  o'  lily-pads  up  the  river  where  I  guess  we  can  find  ? 
beast  that  hasn't  had  a  public  edication." 

The  tension  upon  the  nerves  of  the  boys  was  relieved,  and 
they  whispered  between  themselves  about  what  they  had  seen, 
or  thought  they  had  seen. 

All  became  still,  as  Jim  turned  his  boat  up  the  stream  again. 
After  proceeding  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  in  perfect  silence, 
Jim  whispered  : 

"Skin  yer  eyes,  now,  Mr.  Balfour;  we're  comin'  to  a  lick." 

Jim  steered  his  boat  around  a  little  bend,  and  in  a  moment 
it  was  running  in  shallow  water,  among  grass  and  rushes. 
The  bottom  of  the  stream  was  plainly  visible,  and  Mr.  Balfour 
saw  that  they  had  left  the  river,  and  were  pushing  up  the  de 
bouchure  of  a  sluggish  little  affluent.  They  brushed  along 
among  the  grass  for  twenty  or  thirty  rods,  when,  at  the  same 
instant,  every  eye  detected  a  figure  in  the  distance.  Two 
blazing,  quiet,  curious  eyes  were  watching  them.  Jim  had 
an  instinct  which  assured  him  that  the  deer  was  fascinated  by 
the  light,  and  so  he  pushed  toward  him  silently,  then  stopped, 
and  held  his  boat  perfectly  still.  This  was  the  signal  for  Mr. 
Balfour,  and  in  an  instant  the  woods  were  startled  by  a  dis 
charge  that  deafened  the  silence. 

There  was  a  violent  splash  in  the  water,  a  scramble  up  the 
bank,  a  bound  or  two  toward  the  woods,  a  pitiful  bleat,  and 
then  all  was  still. 

"We've  got  'im,"  said  Jim.  "He's  took  jest  one  buck 
shot  through  his  heart.  Ye  didn't  touch  his  head  nor  his 
legs.  He  jest  run  till  the  blood  leaked  out  and  he  gi'n  it  up. 
Now,  boys,  you  set  here,  and  sing  hallelujer  till  we  bring  'iru 


134  SEVENOAKS. 

The  nose  of  the  little  craft  was  run  against  the  bank,  and 
Mr.  Balfour,  seizing  the  torch,  sprang  on  shore,  and  Jim  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  woods.  They  soon  found  track  of  the 
game  by  the  blood  that  dabbled  the  bushes,  and  stumbled 
upon  the  beautiful  creature  stone  dead— fallen  prone,  with  his 
legs  doubled  under  him.  Jim  swung  him  across  his  shoulders, 
and,  tottering  behind  Mr.  Balfour,  bore  him  back  to  the 
boat.  Placing  him  in  the  bottom,  the  two  men  resumed  their 
seats,  and  Jim,  after  carefully  working  himself  out  of  the  inlet 
into  the  river,  settled  down  to  a  long,  swift  stroke  that  bore 
them  back  to  the  camp  just  as  the  moon  began  to  show 
herself  above  the  trees. 

It  was  a  night  long  to  be  remembered  by  the  boys,  a  fitting 
inauguration  of  the  lawyer's  vacation,  and  an  introduction  to 
woodcraft  from  which,  in  after  years,  the  neophytes  won  rare 
stores  of  refreshment  and  health. 

Mr.  Benedict  received  them  with  hearty  congratulations, 
and  the  perfect  sleep  of  the  night  only  sharpened  their  desire 
for  further  depredations  upon  the  game  that  lived  around 
them,  in  the  water  and  on  the  land. 

As  the  days  passed  on,  they  caught  trout  until  they  were 
tired  of  the  sport ;  they  floated  for  deer  at  night ;  they  took 
weary  tramps  in  all  directions,  and  at  evening,  around  the 
camp-fires,  rehearsed  their  experiences. 

During  all  this  period,  Mr.  Balfour  was  watching  Harry 
Benedict.  The  contrast  between  the  lad  and  his  own  son  was 
as  marked  as  that  between  the  lad's  father  and  himself,  but 
the  positions  were  reversed.  Harry  led,  contrived,  executed. 
He  was  positive,  facile,  amiable,  and  the  boys  were  as  happy 
together  as  their  parents  were.  Jim  had  noticed  the  remarka 
ble  interest  that  Mr.  Balfour  took  in  the  boy,  and  had  begun 
to  suspect  that  he  entertained  intentions  which  would  deprive 
the  camp  of  one  of  its  chief  sources  of  pleasure. 

One  day  when  the  lawyer  and  his  guide  were  quietly  eating 
their  lunch  in  the  forest,  Mr.  Balfour  went  to  work,  in  his 
quiet,  lawyer-like  way,  to  ascertain  the  details  of  Benedict's 


SEVENOAKS.  135 

history ;  and  he  heard  them  all.  When  he  heard  who  had  be 
nefited  by  his  guide's  inventions,  and  learned  just  how  matters 
stood  with  regard  to  the  Belcher  rifle,  he  became,  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  been  in  the  woods,  thoroughly  excited.  He 
had  a  law-case  before  him  as  full  of  the  elements  of  romance 
as  any  that  he  had  ever  been  engaged  in.  A  defrauded  in 
ventor,  living  in  the  forest  in  poverty,  having  escaped  from 
the  insane  ward  of  an  alms-house,  and  the  real  owner  of 
patent  rights  that  were  a  mine  of  wealth  to  the  man  who 
believed  that  death  had  blotted  out  all  the  evidences  of  his 
villainy — this  was  quite  enough  to  excite  his  professional  in 
terest,  even  had  he  been  unacquainted  with  the  man  de 
frauded.  But  the  position  of  this  uncomplaining,  dependent 
man,  who  could  not  fight  his  own  battles,  made  an  irresisti 
ble  appeal  to  his  sense  of  justice  and  his  manhood. 

The  moment,  however,  that  the  lawyer  proposed  to  assist  in 
righting  the  wrong,  Mr.  Benedict  became  dangerously  ex 
cited.  He  could  tell  his  story,  but  the  thought  of  going  out 
into  the  world  again,  and,  particularly  of  engaging  in  a  con 
flict  with  Robert  Belcher,  was  one  that  he  could  not  enter 
tain.  He  was  happier  in  the  woods  than  he  had  been  for 
many  years.  The  life  was  gradually  strengthening  him.  He 
hoped  the  time  would  come  when  he  could  get  something  for 
his  boy,  but,  for  the  present,  he  could  engage  in  no  struggle 
for  reclaiming  and  maintaining  his  rights.  He  believed  that 
an  attempt  to  do  it  would  again  drive  him  to  distraction,  and 
that,  somehow,  Mr.  Belcher  would  get  the  advantage  of  him. 
His  fear  of  the  great  proprietor  had  become  morbidly  acute, 
and  Mr.  Balfour  could  make  no  headway  against  it.  It  was 
prudent  to  let  the  matter  drop  for  a  while. 

Then  Mr.  Balfour  opened  his  heart  in  regard  to  the  boy. 
He  told  Benedict  of  the  loss  with  which  he  had  already  ac 
quainted  Jim,  of  the  loneliness  of  his  remaining  son,  of  the 
help  that  Harry  could  afford  him,  the  need  in  which  the  lad 
stood  of  careful  education,  and  the  accomplishments  he  could 
win  among  better  opportunities  and  higher  society.  He 


136  SESENOAKS. 

would  take  the  boy,  and  treat  him,  up  to  the  time  of  his  ma 
jority,  as  his  own.  If  Mr.  Benedict  could  ever  return  the 
money  expended  for  him,  he  could  have  the  privilege  of  doing 
so,  but  it  would  never  be  regarded  as  a  debt.  Once  every  year 
the  lawyer  would  bring  the  lad  to  the  woods,  so  that  he  should 
not  forget  his  father,  and  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when 
it  seemed  practicable  to  do  so,  a  suit  would  be  instituted  that 
would  give  him  the  rights  so  cruelly  withheld  from  his  natural 
protector. 

The  proposition  was  one  which  taxed  to  its  utmost  Mr. 
Benedict's  power  of  self-control.  He  loved  his  boy  better 
than  he  loved  himself.  He  hoped  that,  in  some  way,  life 
would  be  pleasanter  and  more  successful  to  the  lad  than  it  had 
been  to  him.  He  did  not  wish  him  to  grow  up  illiterate  and 
in  the  woods;  but  how  he  was  to  live  without  him  he  could 
not  tell.  The  plucking  out  of  an  eye  would  have  given  him 
less  pain  than  the  parting  with  his  boy,  though  he  felt  from 
the  first  that  the  lad  would  go. 

Nothing  could  be  determined  without  consulting  Jim,  and 
as  the  conversation  had  destroyed  the  desire  for  further  sport, 
they  packed  their  fishing-tackle  and  returned  to  camp. 

"  The  boy  was' n't  got  up  for  my  'commodation,"  said  Jim, 
when  the  proposition  was  placed  before  him.  "I  seen  the 
thing  comin'  for  a  week,  an'  I've  brung  my  mind  to't.  We 
hain't  got  no  right  to  keep  'im  up  here,  if  he  can  do  better. 
Turk  ain't  bad  company  fur  them  as  likes  dogs,  but  he  ain't 
improvin'.  I  took  the  boy  away  from  Tom  Buffum  'cause  I 
could  do  better  by  'im  nor  he  could,  and  when  a  man  comes 
along  that  can  do  better  by  'im  nor  I  can,  he's  welcome  to 
wade  in.  I  hain't  no  right  to  spile  a  little  feller's  life  'cause 
I  like  his  company.  I  don't  think  much  of  a  feller  that  would 
cheat  a  man  out  of  a  jews-harp  'cause  he  liked  to  fool  with  it. 
Arter  all,  this  sendin'  the  boy  off  is  jest  turnin'  'im  out  to 
pastur'  to  grow,  an'  takin'  'im  in  in  the  fall.  He  may  git  his 
head  up  so  high  t'we  can't  git  the  halter  on  'im  again,  but 
he'll  be  worth  more  to  somebody  that  can,  nor  if  we  kep  'ira 


SEVENOAKS.  137 

in  the  stable.     I  sh'll  hate  to  say  good-bye  t'the  little  feller, 
but  I  sh'll  vote  to  have  'im  go,  unanimous." 

Mr.  Benedict  was  not  a  man  who  had  will  enough  to  with 
stand  the  rational  and  personal  considerations  that  were 
brought  to  bear  upon  him,  and  then  the  two  boys  were 
brought  into  the  consultation.  Thede  was  overjoyed  with  the 
prospect  of  having  for  a  home  companion  the  boy  to  whom  he 
had  become  so  greatly  attached,  and  poor  Harry  was  torn  by  a 
conflict  of  inclinations.  To  leave  Jim  and  his  father  behind 
was  a  great  sorrow ;  and  he  was  half  angry  with  himself 
to  think  that  he  could  find  any  pleasure  in  the  prospect 
of  a  removal.  But  the  love  of  change,  natural  to  a  boy,  and 
the  desire  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  great  city,  with  accounts 
of  which  Thede  had  excited  his  imagination,  overcame  his 
inclination  to  remain  in  the  camp.  The  year  of  separation 
would  be  very  short,  he  thought,  so  that,  after  all,  it  was  only 
a  temporary  matter.  The  moment  the  project  of  going  away 
took  possession  of  him,  his  regrets  died,  and  the  exit  from 
the  woods  seemed  to  him  like  a  journey  into  dreamland,  fronj 
which  he  should  return  in  the  morning. 

How  to  get  the  lad  through  Sevenoaks,  where  he  would  be 
sure  to  be  recognised,  and  so  reveal  the  hiding-place  of  his 
father,  became  at  once  a  puzzling  question.  Mr.  Balfour  had 
arranged  with  the  man  who  brought  him  into  the  woods  to 
return  in  a  fortnight  and  take  him  out,  and  as  he  was  a  man 
who  had  known  the  Benedicts  it  would  not  be  safe  to  trust  to 
his  silence. 

It  was  finally  arranged  that  Jim  should  start  off  at  once  with 
Harry,  and  engage  Mike  Conlin  to  go  through  Sevenoaks  with 
him  in  the  night,  and  deliver  him  at  the  railroad  at  about  the 
hour  when  the  regular  stage  would  arrive  with  Mr.  Balfour. 
The  people  of  Sevenoaks  were  not  travelers,  and  it  would  be 
a  rare  chance  that  should  bring  one  of  them  through  to  that 
point.  The  preparations  were  therefore  made  at  once,  and 
the  next  evening  poor  Benedict  was  called  upon  to  part  with 
his  boy.  It  was  a  bitten  struggle,  but  it  was  accomplished, 


138  SEVENOAKS. 

and,  excited  by  the  strange  life  that  was  opening  before  him, 
the  boy  entered  the  boat  with  Jim,  and  waved  his  adieus  to 
the  group  that  had  gathered  upon  the  bank  to  see  them  off. 

Poor  Turk,  who  had  apparently  understood  all  that  had 
passed  in  the  conversations  of  the  previous  day,  and  become 
fully  aware  of  the  bereavement  that  he  was  about  to  suffer, 
stood  upon  the  shore  and  howled  and  whined  as  they  receded 
into  the  distance.  Then  he  went  up  to  Thede,  and  licked  his 
hand,  as  if  he  would  say ;  "  Don't  leave  me  as  the  other  boy 
has  done ;  if  you  do,  I  shall  be  inconsolable." 

Jim  effected  his  purpose,  and  returned  before  light  the  next 
morning,  and  on  the  following  day  he  took  Mr.  Balfour  and 
Thede  down  the  river,  and  delivered  them  to  the  man  whom 
he  found  waiting  for  them.  The  programme  was  carried  out 
in  all  its  details,  and  two  days  afterward  the  two  boys  were 
sitting  side  by  side  in  the  railway-car  that  was  hurrying  them 
toward  the  great  city. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

WHICH    RECORDS    MR.      BELCHER'S    CONNECTION    WITH     A    GREAT 

SPECULATION  AND  BRINGS  TO  A  CLOSE  HIS   RESIDENCE    IN 

SEVENOAKS. 

WHITHER  was  he  going  ?  He  had  a  little  fortune  in  his 
pockets — more  money  than  prudent  men  are  in  the  habit  of 
carrying  with  them — and  a  scheme  in  his  mind.  After  the 
purchase  of  Palgrave's  Folly,  and  the  inauguration  of  a  scale 
of  family  expenditure  far  surpassing  all  his  previous  expe 
rience,  Mr.  Belcher  began  to  feel  poor,  and  to  realize  the  ne 
cessity  of  extending  his  enterprise.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
felt  that  he  had  surpassed  the  proprieties  of  domestic  life  in 
taking  so  important  a  step  as  that  of  changing  his  residence 
without  consulting  Mrs.  Belcher.  He  did  not  wish  to  meet 
her  at  once ;  so  it  was  easy  for  him,  when  he  left  New  York, 
to  take  a  wide  diversion  on  his  way  home. 

For  several  months  the  reports  of  the  great  oil  discoveries 
of  Pennsylvania  had  been  floating  through  the  press.  Stories 
of  enormous  fortunes  acquired  in  a  single  week,  and  even  in 
a  single  day,  were  rife ;  and  they  had  excited  his  greed  with 
a  strange  power.  He  had  witnessed,  too,  the  effect  of  these 
stories  upon  the  minds  of  the  humble  people  of  Sevenoaks. 
They  were  uneasy  in  their  poverty,  and  were  in  the  habit  of 
reading  with  avidity  all  the  accounts  that  emanated  from  the 
new  center  of  speculation.  The  monsters  of  the  sea  had  long 
been  chased  into  the  ice,  and  the  whalers  had  returned  with 
scantier  fares  year  after  year;  but  here  was  light  for  the 
world.  The  solid  ground  itself  was  echoing  with  the  cry : 
" Here  she  blows  !"  and  "There  she  blows  !"  and  the  long 

I39 


t40  SEVENOAKS. 

harpoons  went  down  to  its  vitals,  and  were  fairly  lifted  out 
by  the  pressure  of  the  treasure  that  impatiently  waited  for  de 
liverance. 

Mr.  Belcher  had  long  desired  to  have  a  hand  in  this  ne\» 
business.  To  see  a  great  speculation  pass  by  without  yielding 
him  any  return  was  very  painful  to  him.  During  his  brief  stay 
in  New  York  he  had  been  approached  by  speculators  from  the 
new  field  of  promise ;  and  had  been  able  by  his  quick  wit 
and  ready  business  instinct  to  ascertain  just  the  way  in 
which  money  was  made  and  was  to  be  made.  He  dismissed 
them  all,  for  he  had  the  means  in  his  hands  of  starting  nearer 
the  sources  of  profit  than  themselves,  and  to  be  not  only  one 
of  the  "  bottom  ring,"  but  to  be  the  bottom  man.  No 
.  moderate  profit  and  no  legitimate  Income  would  satisfy  him. 
He  would  gather  the  investments  of  the  multitude  into  his 
own  capacious  pockets,  or  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter.  He  would  sweep  the  board,  fairly  or  foully,  or 
he  would  not  play. 

As  he  traveled  along  westward,  he  found  that  the  company 
was  made  up  of  men  whose  tickets  took  them  to  his  own 
destination.  Most  of  them  were  quiet,  with  ears  open  to  the 
few  talkers  who  had  already  been  there,  and  were  returning. 
Mr.  Belcher  listened  to  them,  laughed  at  them,  scoffed  at  theii 
schemes,  and  laid  up  carefully  all  that  they  said.  Before  he 
arrived  at  Corry  he  had  acquired  a  tolerable  knowledge  of 
the  oil-fields,  and  determined  upon  his  scheme  of  operations 

As  he  drew  nearer  the  great  center  of  excitement,  he  came 
more  into  contact  with  the  masses  who  had  gathered  there, 
crazed  with  the  spirit  of  speculation.  Men  were  around  him 
whose  clothes  were  shining  with  b.tumen.  The  air  was  loaded 
with  the  smell  of  petroleum.  Derricks  were  thrown  up  on 
every  side ;  drills  were  at  work  piercing  the  earth  j  villages 
were  starting  among  stumps  still  fresh  at  the  top,  as  if  their 
trees  were  cut  but  yesterday ;  rough  men  in  high  boots  were 
ranging  the  country  ;  the  depots  were  glutted  with  portable 
Steam-engines  and  all  sorts  of  mining  machinery,  .and  there 


SEVENOAKS.  141 

was  but  one  subject  of  conversation.  Some  new  well  had 
begun  to  flow  with  hundreds  of  barrels  of  petroleum  per 
diem.  Some  new  man  had  made  a  fortune.  Farmers,  who 
had  barely  been  able  to  get  a  living  from  their  sterile 
acres,  had  become  millionaires.  The  whole  region  was  alive 
with  fortune-hunters,  from  every  quarter  of  the  country. 
Millions  of  dollars  were  in  the  pockets  of  men  who  were 
ready  to  purchase.  Seedy,  crazy,  visionary  fellows  were 
working  as  middle-men,  to  talk  up  schemes,  and  win  their 
bread,  with  as  much  more  as  they  could  lay  their  hands  on. 
The  very  air  was  charged  with  the  contagion  of  speculation, 
and  men  seemed  ready  to  believe  anything  and  do  anything, 
[t  appeared,  indeed,  as  if  a  man  had  only  to  buy,  to  double 
his  money  in  a  day ;  and  half  the  insane  multitude  believed 
it. 

Mr.  Belcher  kept  himself  quiet,  and  defended  himself  from 
the  influences  around  him  by  adopting  and  holding  his  scoff 
ing  mood.  He  believed  nothing.  He  was  there  simply  to 
see  what  asses  men  could  make  of  themselves ;  but  he  kept 
his  ears  open.  The  wretched  hotel  at  which  he  at  last  found 
accommodations  was  thronged  with  fortune-seekers,  among 
whom  he  moved  self-possessed  and  quite  at  home.  On  the 
second  day  his  mood  began  to  tell  on  those  around  him. 
There  were  men  there  who  knew  about  him  and  his  great 
wealth — men  who  had  been  impressed  with  his  sagacity.  He 
studied  them  carefully,  gave  no  one  his  confidence,  and  quietly 
laid  his  plans.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  he  returned 
to  the  hotel,  and  announced  that  he  had  had  the  good  fortune 
to  purchase  a  piece  of  property  that  he  proposed  to  operate 
and  improve  on  his  own  account. 

Then  he  was  approached  with  propositions  for  forming  a 
company.  He  had  paid  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  a  farm — 
paid  the  money — and  before  morning  he  had  sold  half  of  it 
for  what  he  gave  for  the  whole-  and  formed  a  company  with 
the  nominal  capital  of  half  a  million  of  dollars,  a  moiety  of 
the  stock  being  his  own  at  no  cost  to  him  whatever.  The 


/42  SEVEN  OAKS. 

arrangements  were  all  made  for  the  issue  of  stock  and  the 
commencement  of  operations,  and  when,  three  days  afterward, 
he  started  from  Titusville  on  his  way  home,  he  had  in  his 
satchel  blank  certificates  of  stock,  all  signed  by  the  officers  of 
the  Continental  Petroleum  Company,  to  be  limited  in  its  issue 
to  the  sum  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.     He 
never  expected  to  see  the  land  again.    He  did  not  expect  that 
the  enterprise  would  be  of  the  slightest  value  to  those  who 
should  invest  in  it.     He  expected  to  do  just  what  others  were 
doing — to  sell  his  stock  and  pocket  the  proceeds,  while  inves 
tors  pocketed  their  losses.    It  was  all  an  acute  business  opera 
tion  with  him ;    and  he  intended  to  take  advantage  of  the 
excitement  of  the  time  to  "clean  out  "  Sevenoaks  and  all  the 
region   round  about  his  country  home,  while  his  confreres 
operated  in  their  own  localities.     He  chuckled  over  his  plans 
as  if  he  contemplated  some  great,  good  deed  that  would  be 
of  incalculable  benefit  to  his   neighbors.      He  suffered  n( 
qualm  of  conscience,  no  revolt  of  personal  honor,  no  spasu 
of  sympathy  or  pity. 

As  soon  as  he  set  out  upon  his  journey  homeward  he  began 
to  think  of  his  New  York  purchase.  He  had  taken  a  bold 
step,  and  he  wished  that  he  had  said  something  to  Mrs. 
Belcher  about  his  plans,  but  he  had  been  so  much  in  the  habit 
of  managing  everything  in  his  business  without  consulting  her, 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  before  he  started  from  home  that 
any  matter  of  his  was  not  exclusively  his  own.  He  would 
just  as  soon  have  thought  of  taking  Phipps  into  his  con 
fidence,  or  of  deferring  to  his  wishes  in  any  project,  as  of  ex 
tending  those  courtesies  to  his  wife.  There  was  another  con 
sideration  which  weighed  somewhat  heavily  upon  his  mind. 
He  was  not  entirely  sure  that  he  would  not  be  ashamed  of 
Mrs.  Belcher  in  the  grand  home  which  he  had  provided  for 
himself.  He  respected  her,  and  had  loved  her  in  his  poor, 
sensual  fashion,  some  changeful  years  in  the  past ;  he  had 
regarded  her  as  a  good  mother,  and,  at  least,  as  an  inoffensive 
wife ;  but  she  was  not  Mrs.  Dillingham.  She  would  not  b« 


SEVEN  OAKS.  143 

at  home  in  the  society  of  which  he  had  caught  a  glimpse,  or 
among  the  splendors  to  which  he  would  be  obliged  to  intro 
duce  her.  Even  Talbot,  the  man  who  was  getting  rich  upon 
the  products  of  his  enterprise,  had  a  more  impressive  wife 
than  he.  And  thus,  with  much  reflection,  this  strange,  easy- 
natured  brute  without  a  conscience,  wrought  up  his  soul  into 
self-pity.  In  some  way  he  had  been  defrauded.  It  never 
could  have  been  intended  that  a  man  capable  of  winning  so 
many  of  his  heart's  desires  as  he  had  proved  himself  to  be, 
should  be  tied  to  a  woman  incapable  of  illuminating  and 
honoring  his  position.  If  he  only  had  a  wife  of  whose  person 
he  could  be  proud  !  If  he  only  had  a  wife  whose  queenly 
presence  and  manners  would  give  significance  to  the  splendors 
of  the  Palgrave  mansion  ! 

There  was  no  way  left  for  him,  however,  but  to  make  the 
best  of  his  circumstances,  and  put  a  brave  face  upon  the  mat 
ter.  Accordingly,  the  next  morning  after  his  arrival,  he  told, 
with  such  display  of  enthusiasm  as  he  could  assume,  the  story 
of  his  purchase.  The  children  were  all  attention,  and  made 
no  hesitation  to  express  their  delight  with  the  change  that  lay 
before  them.  Mrs.  Belcher  grew  pale,  choked  over  her  break 
fast,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  the  table.  At  the  close  of  the 
meal,  Mr.  Belcher  followed  her  to  her  room,  and  found  hex 
with  dry  eyes  and  an  angry  face. 

"  Robert,  you  have  determined  to  kill  me,"  she  said,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  Oh,  no,  Sarah;  not  quite  so  bad  as  that." 

"  How  could  you  take  a  step  which  you  knew  would  give 
me  a  life-long  pain  ?  Have  I  not  suffered  enough  ?  Is  it  not 
enough  that  I  have  ceased  practically  to  have  a  husband  ? — • 
that  I  have  given  up  all  society,  and  been  driven  in  upon  my 
children  ?  Am  I  to  have  no  will,  no  consideration,  no  part 
or  lot  in  my  own  life?" 

"  Put  it  through,  Sarah ;  you  have  the  floor,  and  I'm  ready 
to  take  it  all  now." 

"And  it  is  all  for  show,"  she  went  on,  "and  is  disgusting. 


144  SEVENOAKS. 

There  is  not  a  soul  in  the  city  that  your  wealth  can  bring  to 
me  that  will  give  me  society.  I  shall  be  a  thousand  times 
lonelier  there  than  I  have  been  here ;  and  you  compel  me  to 
go  where  I  must  receive  people  whom  I  shall  despise,  and 
who,  for  that  reason,  will  dislike  me.  You  propose  to 
force  me  into  a  life  that  is  worse  than  emptiness.  I  am 
more  nearly  content  here  than  I  can  ever  be  anywhere 
else,  and  I  shall  never  leave  here  without  a  cruel  sense  of  sa 
crifice." 

"Good  for  you,  Sarah!"  said  Mr.  Belcher.  "You're 
more  of  a  trump  than  I  thought  you  were ;  and  if  it  will  do 
you  any  good  to  know  that  I  think  I've  been  a  little  rough 
with  you,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so.  But  the  thing  is  done, 
and  it  can't  be  undone.  You  can  have  your  own  sort  of  life 
there  as  you  do  here,  and  I  can  have  mine.  I  suppose  I  could 
go  there  and  run  the  house  alone;  but  it  isn't  exactly  the 
thing  for  Mrs.  Belcher's  husband  to  do.  People  might  talk, 
you  know,  and  they  wouldn't  blame  me." 

"No;  they  would  blame  me,  and  I  must  go,  whether  1 
wish  to  go  or  not." 

Mrs.  Belcher  had  talked  until  she  could  weep,  and  brushing 
her  eyes  she  walked  to  the  window.  Mr.  Belcher  sat  still, 
casting  furtive  glances  at  her,  and  drumming  with  his  fingers 
on  his  knees.  When  she  could  sufficiently  command  herself, 
she  returned,  and  said : 

"  Robert,  I  have  tried  to  be  a  good  wife  to  you.  I  helped 
you  in  your  first  struggles,  and  then  you  were  a  comfort  to 
me.  But  your  wealth  has  changed  you,  and  you  know  that 
for  ten  years  I  have  had  no  husband.  I  have  humored  your 
caprices ;  I  have  been  careful  not  to  cross  your  will.  I  have 
taken  your  generous  provision,  and  made  myself  and  my 
children  what  you  desired ;  but  I  am  no  more  to  you  than  a 
part  of  your  establishment.  I  do  not  feel  that  my  position  is 
an  honorable  one.  I  wish  to  God  that  I  had  one  hope  that  it 
would  ever  become  so." 

"  Well,  by-by,  Sarah.     You'll  feel  better  about  it." 


SEVEN  OAKS.  145 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and 
left  her. 

That  little  attention — that  one  shadow  of  recognition  of 
the  old  relations,  that  faint  show  of  feeling — went  straight  to 
her  starving  heart.  And  then,  assuming  blame  for  what 
seemed,  at  the  moment  of  reaction,  her  unreasonable  selfish 
ness,  she  determined  to  say  no  more,  and  to  take  uncomplain* 
ingly  whatever  life  her  husband  might  provide  for  her. 

As  for  Mr.  Belcher,  he  went  off  to  his  library  and  his  cigar 
with  a  wound  in  his  heart.  The  interview  with  his  wife, 
while  it  had  excited  in  him  a  certain  amount  of  pity  for  her, 
had  deepened  his  pity  for  himself.  She  had  ceased  to  be 
<vhat  she  had  once  been  to  him ;  yet  his  experience  in  the 
-dty  had  proved  that  there  were  still  women  in  the  world  who 
could  excite  in  him  the  old  passion,  and  move  him  to  the  old 
gallantries.  It  was  clearly  a  case  of  incipient  "  incompati 
bility."  It  was  "the  mistake  of  a  lifetime"  just  discovered, 
though  she  had  borne  his  children  and  held  his  respect  fo? 
fifteen  years.  He  still  felt  the  warmth  of  Mrs.  Dillingham'- 
hands  within  his  own,  the  impression  of  her  confiding  clasj 
upon  his  arm,  and  the  magnetic  influence  of  her  splendic 
presence.  Reason  as  he  would,  he  felt  defrauded  of  hi 
lights;  and  he  wondered  whether  any  combination  of  circum 
stances  would  ever  permit  him  to  achieve  them.  As  this 
amounted  to  wondering  whether  Mrs.  Belcher  would  die,  he 
strove  to  banish  the  question  from  his  mind  ;  but  it  returned 
and  returned  again  so  pertinaciously  that  he  was  glad  to  order 
his  horses  and  ride  to  his  factory. 

Before  night  it  became  noised  through  the  village  that  the 
great  proprietor  had  been  to  the  oil  regions.  The  fact  was 
talked  over  among  the  people  in  the  shops,  in  the  street,  in 
social  groups  that  gathered  at  evening ;  and  there  was  great 
curiosity  to  know  what  he  had  learned,  and  what  opinions  he 
had  formed.  Mr.  Belcher  knew  how  to  play  his  cards,  and 
having  set  the  people  talking,  he  filled  out  and  sent  to  each 
of  the  wives  of  the  five  pastors  of  the  village,  as  a  gift,  a  cer 
7 


146  SEVENOAKS. 

tificate  of  five  shares  of  the  stock  of  the  Continental  Pe 
troleum  Company.  Of  course,  they  were  greatly  delighted, 
and,  of  course,  twenty-four  hours  had  not  passed  by  when 
every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Sevenoaks  was  acquainted 
with  the  transaction.  People  began  to  revise  their  judgments 
of  the  man  whom  they  had  so  severely  condemned.  After 
all,  it  was  the  way  in  which  he  had  done  things  in  former 
days,  and  though  they  had  come  to  a  vivid  apprehension  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  done  them  for  a  purpose,  which  invaria 
bly  terminated  in  himself,  they  could  not  see  what  there  was 
to  be  gained  by  so  munificent  a  gift.  Was  he  not  endeavor 
ing,  by  self-sacrifice,  to  win  back  a  portion  of  the  considera 
tion  he  had  formerly  enjoyed  ?  Was  it  not  a  confession  of 
wrong-doing,  or  wrong  judgment?  There  were  men  wha 
shook  their  heads,  and  "didn't  know  about  it;"  but  the  pre 
ponderance  of  feeling  was  on  the  side  of  the  proprietor,  who 
sat  in  his  library  and  imagined  just  what  was  in  progress 
around  him, — nay,  calculated  upon  it,  as  a  chemist  calculates 
the  results  of  certain  combinations  in  his  laboratory.  He 
knew  the  people  a  great  deal  better  than  they  knew  him,  or 
even  themselves. 

Miss  Butterworth  called  at  the  house  of  the  Rev.  Solomon 
Snow,  who,  immediately  upon  her  entrance,  took  his  seat  ir 
his  arm-chair,  and  adjusted  his  bridge.  The  little  woman  was 
so  combative  and  incisive  that  this  always  seemed  a  necessary 
precaution  on  the  part  of  that  gentleman. 

"I  want  to  see  it!"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  without  the 
slightest  indication  of  the  object  of  her  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Snow  rose  without  hesitation,  and,  going  to  a  trunk 
In  her  bedroom,  brought  out  her  precious  certificate  of  stock, 
and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  the  tailoress. 

It  certainly  was  a  certificate  of  stock,  to  the  amount  of  five 
shares,  in  the  Continental  Petroleum  Company,  and  Mr.  Bel 
cher's  name  was  not  among  the  signatures  of  the  officers. 

"Well,  that    beats    me!"     exclaimed    Miss    Butterworth, 
do  you  suppose  the  old  snake  wants  now?" 


SEVENOAKS.  147 

"That's  just  what  I  say — just  what  1  say,"  responded  Mrs. 
Snow.  "  Goodness  knows,  if  it's  worth  anything,  we  need 
it ;  but  what  does  he  want  ?" 

"You'll  find  out  some  time.  Take  my  word  for  it,  he  has 
a  large  axe  to  grind." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Snow  judicially,  "that  it  is  quite 
possible  that  we  have  been  unjust  to  Mr.  Belcher.  He  is  cer 
tainly  a  man  of  generous  instincts,  but  with  great  eccentrici 
ties.  Before  condemning  him  in  toto  (here  Mr.  Snow  opened 
his  bridge  to  let  out  the  charity  that  was  rising  within  him, 
and  closed  it  at  once  for  fear  Miss  Butterworth  would  get  in  a 
protest),  let  us  be  sure  that  there  is  a  possible  selfish  motive 
for  this  most  unexpected  munificence.  When  we  ascertain 
the  true  state  of  the  case,  then  we  can  take  things  as  they  air. 
Until  we  have  arrived  at  the  necessary  knowledge,  it  becomes 
us  to  withhold  all  severe  judgments.  A  generous  deed  has  its 
reflex  influence ;  and  it  may  be  that  some  good  may  come  to 
Mr.  Belcher  from  this,  and  help  to  mold  his  character  to 
nobler  issues.  I  sincerely  hope  it  may,  and  that  we  shall 
realize  dividends  that  will  add  permanently  to  our  somewhat 
restricted  sources  of  income." 

Miss  Butterworth  sat  during  the  speech,  and  trotted  her 
knee.  She  had  no  faith  in  the  paper,  and  she  frankly  said  s-j 

"  Don't  be  fooled,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Snow.  "  By  and  If 
you  will  find  out  that  it  is  all  a  trick.  Don't  expect  anything. 
I  tell  you  I  know  Robert  Belcher,  and  I  know  he's  a  knave, 
if  there  ever  was  one.  I  can  feel  him — I  can  feel  him  now — 
chuckling  over  this  business,  for  business  it  is." 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  in  my  place?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Snow.  "  Would  you  send  it  back  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  or  I'd  take  it  with  a  pair  of  tongs  and  throw  it  out 
of  the  window.  I  tell  you  there's  a  nasty  trick  done  up  in 
that  paper  ;  and  if  you're  going  to  keep  it,  don't  say  anything 
about  it." 

The  family  laughed,  and  even  Mr.  Snow  unbent  himself  so 
far  as  to  smile  and  wipe  his  spectacles.  Then  the  little 


i48  SEVENOAKS. 

tailoress  went  away,  wondering  when  the  mischief  would  re 
veal  itself,  but  sure  that  it  would  appear  in  good  time.  In 
good  time — that  is,  in  Mr.  Belcher's  good  time — it  did  appear. 

To  comprehend  the  excitement  that  followed,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  people  of  Sevenoaks  had  the  most  im 
plicit  confidence  in  Mr.  Belcher's  business  sagacity.  He  had 
been  upon  the  ground,  and  knew  personally  all  about  the  great 
discoveries.  Having  investigated  for  himself,  he  had  invested 
his  funds  in  this  Company.  If  the  people  could  only  embark 
in  his  boat,  they  felt  that  they  should  be  safe.  He  would  de 
fend  their  interests  while  defending  his  own.  So  the  field  was 
all  ready  for  his  reaping.  Not  Sevenoaks  alone,  but  the  whole 
country  was  open  to  any  scheme  which  connected  them  with 
the  profits  of  these  great  discoveries,  and  when  the  excitemenf 
at  Sevenoaks  passed  away  at  last,  and  men  regained  their 
senses,  in  the  loss  of  their  money,  they  had  the  company  of 
a  multitude  of  ruined  sympathizers  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land.  Not  only  the  simple  and  the  impressible 
yielded  to  the  wave  of  speculation  that  swept  the  country,  but 
the  shrewdest  business  men  formed  its  crest,  and  were  thrown 
high  and  dry  beyond  all  others,  in  the  common  wreck,  when 
it  reached  the  shore. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  after  his  return,  Mr.  Bel 
cher  was  waited  upon  at  his  house  by  a  self-constituted  com 
mittee  of  citizens,  who  merely  called  to  inquire  into  the 
wonders  of  the  region  he  had  explored.  Mr.  Belcher  was 
quite  at  his  ease,  and  entered  at  once  upon  a  narrative  of  his 
risit.  He  had  supposed  that  the  excitement  was  without  any 
good  foundation,  but  the  oil  was  really  there ;  and  he  did  not 
see  why  the  business  was  not  as  legitimate  and  sound  as  any 
in  the  world.  The  whole  world  needed  the  oil,  and  this  was 
the  one  locality  which  produced  it.  There  was  undoubtedly 
more  or  less  of  wild  speculation  connected  with  it,  and,  con 
sidering  the  value  of  the  discoveries,  it  was  not  to  be  won 
dered  at.  On  the  whole,  it  was  the  biggest  thing  that  had 
turned  up  during  his  lifetime. 


SEVENOAKS.  149 

Constantly  leading  them  away  from  the  topic  of  invest 
ment,  he  regaled  their  ears  with  the  stories  of  the  enormous 
fortunes  that  had  been  made,  until  there  was  not  a  man  before 
him  who  was  not  ready  to  invest  half  the  fortune  he  possessed 
in  the  speculation.  Finally,  one  of  the  more  frank  and  im 
patient  of  the  group  informed  Mr.  Belcher  that  they  had 
come  prepared  to  invest,  if  they  found  his  report  favorable. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "I  really  cannot  take  the 
responsibility  of  advising  you.  I  can  act  for  myself,  but 
when  it  comes  to  advising  my  neighbors,  it  is  another  matter 
entirely.  You  really  must  excuse  me  from  this.  I  have  gone 
into  the  business  rather  heavily,  but  I  have  done  it  without 
advice,  and  you  must  do  the  same.  It  isn't  right  for  any  man 
to  lead  another  into  experiments  of  this  sort,  and  it  is  hardly 
the  fair  thing  to  ask  him  to  do  it.  I've  looked  for  myself, 
but  the  fact  that  I  am  satisfied  is  no  good  reason  for  youi 
being  so." 

' '  Very  well,  tell  us  how  to  do  it, ' '  said  the  spokesman. 
"  We  cannot  leave  our  business  to  do  what  you  have  done, 
and  we  shall  be  obliged  to  run  some  risk,  if  we  go  into  it  at 
all." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  the  wily  proprietor,  "you  are  put 
ting  me  in  a  hard  place.  Suppose  the  matter  turns  out  badly 
are  you  going  to  come  to  me,  and  charge  me  with  leading  you 
into  it?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  responded,  almost  in  unison. 

"  If  you  want  to  go  into  the  Continental,  I  presume  there 
is  still  some  stock  to  be  had.  If  you  wish  me  to  act  as  your 
agent,  I  will  serve  you  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  but, 
mark  you,  I  take  no  responsibility.  I  will  receive  your  money, 
and  you  shall  have  your  certificates  as  soon  as  the  mail  will 
bring  them ;  and,  if  I  can  get  no  stock  of  the  Company,  you 
shall  have  some  of  my  own." 

They  protested  that  they  did  not  wish  to  put  him  to 
inconvenience,  but  quietly  placed  their  money  in  his  hands. 
Every  sum  was  carefully  counted  and  recorded,  and  Mr.  Bel* 


150  SEVENOAKS. 

cher  assured  them  that  they  should  have  their  certificates 
within  five  days. 

As  they  retired,  he  confidentially  told  them  that  they  had 
better  keep  the  matter  from  any  but  their  particular  friends. 
If  there  was  any  man  among  those  friends  who  would  like  "  a 
chance  in,"  he  might  come  to  him,  and  he  would  do  what  he 
could  for  him. 

Each  of  these  men  went  off  down  the  hill,  full  of  dreams 
of  sudden  wealth,  and,  as  each  of  them  had  three  or  four 
particular  friends  to  whom  Mr.  Belcher's  closing  message  was 
given,  that  gentleman  was  thronged  with  visitors  the  next 
day,  each  one  of  whom  he  saw  alone.  All  of  these,  too,  had 
^articular  friends,  and  within  ten  days  Mr.  Belcher  had 
pocketed  in  his  library  the  munificent  sum  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  After  a  reasonable  period,  each 
investor  received  a  certificate  of  his  stock  through  the  mail. 

It  was  astonishing  to  learn  that  there  was  so  much  money 
in  the  village.  It  came  in  sums  of  one  hundred  up  to  five 
hundred  dollars,  from  the  most  unexpected  sources — little 
hoards  that  covered  the  savings  of  many  years.  It  came  from 
widows  and  orphans ;  it  came  from  clergymen ;  it  came  from 
smaU  tradesmen  and  farmers ;  it  came  from  the  best  business 
men  in  the  place  and  region. 

The  proprietor  was  in  daily  communication  with  his  con 
federates  and  tools,  and  the  investors  were  one  day  electrified 
by  the  information  that  the  Continental  had  declared  a 
monthly  dividend  of  two  per  cent.  This  was  what  was  needed 
to  unload  Mr.  Belcher  of  nearly  all  the  stock  he  held,  and, 
within  one  month  of  his  arrival  from  the  oil-fields,  he  had 
realized  a  sum  sufficient  to  pay  for  his  new  purchase  in  the 
city,  and  the  costly  furniture  with  which  he  proposed  to  illu 
minate  it. 

Sevenoaks  was  happy.  The  sun  of  prosperity  had  dawned 
upon  the  people,  and  the  favored  few  who  supposed  that  they 
were  the  only  ones  to  whom  the  good  fortune  had  come,  were 
surprised  to  find  themselves  a  great  multitude.  The  dividend 


SEVENOAKS.  151 

was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Those  who  had  invested  a  portion 
of  their  small  means  invested  more,  and  those  whose  good 
angel  had  spared  them  from  the  sacrifice  yielded  to  the  glit 
tering  temptation,  and  joined  their  lot  with  their  rejoicing 
neighbors.  Mr.  Belcher  walked  or  drove  among  them,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  over  their  good  fortune.  He  knew  very  well 
that  if  he  were  going  to  reside  longer  among  the  people,  his 
position  would  be  a  hard  one ;  but  he  calculated  that  when' 
the  explosion  should  come,  he  should  be  beyond  its  reach. 

It  was  a  good  time  for  him  to  declare  the  fact  that  he  was 
about  to  leave  them ;  and  this  he  did.  An  earthquake  would 
not  have  filled  them  with  greater  surprise  and  consternation. 
The  industries  of  the  town  were  in  his  hands.  The  principal 
-property  of  the  village  was  his.  He  was  identified  with  the 
new  enterprise  upon  which  they  had  built  such  high  hope, 
and  they  had  come  to  believe  that  he  was  a  kindlier  man  thai 
they  had  formerly  supposed  him  to  be. 

Already,  however,  there  were  suspicions  in  many  minds  thai 
there  were  bubbles  on  their  oil,  ready  to  burst,  and  reveal  the 
shallowness  of  the  material  beneath  them ;  but  these  very 
suspicions  urged  them  to  treat  Mr.  Belcher  well,  and  to  keep 
him  interested  for  them.  They  protested  against  his  leaving 
them.  They  assured  him  of  their  friendship.  They  told  him 
that  he  had  grown  up  among  them,  and  that  they  could  not 
but  feel  that  he  belonged  to  them.  They  were  proud  of  the 
position  and  prosperity  he  had  won  for  himself.  They  fawned 
upon  him,  and  when,  at  last,  he  told  them  that  it  was  too 
late — that  he  had  purchased  and  furnished  a  home  for  himself 
in  the  city — they  called  a  public  meeting,  and,  after  a  dozen 
regretful  and  complimentary  speeches,  from  clergy  and  laity, 
resolved : 

"  i st.  That  we  have  learned  with  profound  regret  that  our 
distinguished  fellow-citizen,  ROBERT  BELCHER,  Esq.,  is  about 
to  remove  his  residence  from  among  us,  and  to  become  a  citi 
zen  of  the  commercial  emporium  of  our  country. 

"  2d.  That  we  recognize  in  him  a  gentleman  of  great  busi* 


J52  SEVENOAKS. 

ness  enterprise,  of  generous  instincts,  of  remarkable  public 
spirit,  and  a  personal  illustration  of  the  beneficent  influence 
of  freedom  and  of  free  democratic  institutions. 

"3d.  That  the  citizens  of  Sevenoaks  will  ever  hold  in 
kindly  remembrance  a  gentleman  who  has  been  identified 
with  the  growth  and  importance  of  their  beloved  village,  and 
that  they  shall  follow  him  to  his  new  home  with  heartiest 
good  wishes  and  prayers  for  his  welfare. 

"4th.  That  whenever  in  the  future  his  heart  and  his  steps 
shall  turn  toward  his  old  home,  and  the  friends  of  his  youth, 
he  shall  be  greeted  with  voices  of  welcome,  and  hearts  and 
homes  of  hospitality. 

"5th.  That  these  resolutions  shall  be  published  in  the 
county  papers,  and  that  a  copy  shall  be  presented  to  the  gen 
tleman  named  therein,  by  a  committee  to  be  appointed  by 
the  chairman." 

As  was  quite  natural,  and  quite  noteworthy,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  the  committee  appointed  was  composed  of  those 
most  deeply  interested  in  the  affairs  of  the  Continental  Pe 
troleum  Company. 

Mr.  Belcher  received  the  committee  very  graciously,  and 
made  them  a  neat  little  speech,  which  he  had  carefully  pre 
pared  for  the  occasion.  In  concluding,  he  alluded  to  the 
great  speculation  in  which  they,  with  so  many  of  their  fellow- 
citizens,  had  embarked. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  one  who  holds  so 
large  an  interest  in  the  Continental  as  myself.  I  have  parted 
with  many  of  my  shares  to  gratify  the  desire  of  the  people 
of  Sevenoaks  to  possess  them,  but  I  still  hold  more  than  an? 
of  you.  If  the  enterprise  prospers,  I  shall  prosper  with  you. 
If  it  goes  down,  as  I  sincerely  hope  it  may  not — more  fof 
your  sakes,  believe  me,  than  my  own — I  shall  suffer  with  you. 
Let  us  hope  for  the  best.  I  have  already  authority  for  an 
nouncing  to  you  that  another  monthly  dividend  of  two  percent, 
will  be  paid  you  before  I  am  called  upon  to  leave  you.  That 
certainly  looks  like  prosperity.  Gentlemen,  I  bid  you  farewell. " 


SEVENOAKS.  153 

When  tney  had  departed,  having  first  heartily  shaken  the 
proprietor's  hand,  that  gentleman  locked  his  door,  and  gazed 
for  a  long  time  into  his  mirror. 

"  Robert  Belcher,"  said  he,  "are  you  a  rascal  ?  Who  says 
rascal  ?  Are  you  any  worse  than  the  crowd  ?  How  badly 
would  any  of  these  precious  fellow-citizens  of  yours  feel  if 
they  knew  their  income  was  drawn  from  other  men's  pockets? 
Eh  ?  Wouldn't  they  prefer  to  have  somebody  suffer  rather 
than  lose  their  investments  ?  Verily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you, 
they  would.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  being  a  rascal!  You're 
just  a  little  sharper  than  the  rest  of  them — that's  all.  They 
wanted  to  get  money  without  earning  it,  and  wanted  me  to 
help  them  to  do  it.  I  wanted  to  get  money  without  earning 
it,  and  I  wanted  them  to  help  me  to  do  it.  It  happens  that 
they  will  be  disappointed  and  that  I  am  satisfied.  Don't  say 
rascal  to  me,  sir.  If  I  ever  hear  that  word  again  I'll  throttle 
you.  Is  that  question  settled  ?  It  is  ?  Very  well.  Let 
there  be  peace  between  us.  *  *  *  List  !  I  hear  the  roar 
of  the  mighty  city  !  Who  lives  in  yonder  palace  ?  Whose 
wealth  surrounds  him  thus  with  luxuries  untold  ?  Who  walks 
out  of  yonder  door  and  gets  into  that  carriage,  waiting  with 
impatient  steeds?  Is  that  gentleman's  name  Belcher  ?  Take 
a  good  look  at  him  as  he  rolls  away,  bowing  right  and  left  to 
the  gazing  multitude.  He  is  gone.  The  abyss  of  heaven 
swallows  up  his  form,  and  yet  I  linger.  Why  lingerest  thou  ? 
Farewell!  and  again  I  say,  farewell  !" 

Mr.  Belcher  had  very  carefully  covered  all  his  tracks.  He 
had  insisted  on  having  his  name  omitted  from  the  list  of 
officers  of  the  Continental  Petroleum  Company.  He  had 
carefully  forwarded  the  names  of  all  who  had  invested  in  its 
stock  for  record,  so  that,  if  the  books  should  ever  be  brought 
to  light,  there  should  be  no  apparent  irregularity  in  his  deal 
ings.  His  own  name  was  there  with  the  rest,  and  a  small 
amount  of  money  had  been  set  aside  for  operating  expenses, 
so  that  something  would  appear  to  have  been  done. 

The  day  aDDJ^ched  for  his  departure,  and  his  agent,  with 

7* 


I54  SEVENOAKS. 

his  family,  was  installed  in  his  house  for  its  protection ;  and 
one  fine  morning,  having  first  posted  on  two  or  three  public 
places  the  announcement  of  a  second  monthly  dividend  to  be 
paid  through  his  agent  to  the  stockholders  in  the  Continental, 
he,  with  his  family,  rode  down  the  hill  in  his  coach,  followed 
by  an  enormous  baggage-wagon  loaded  with  trunks,  and 
passed  through  the  village.  Half  of  Sevenoaks  was  out  to 
witness  the  departure.  Cheers  rent  the  air  from  every  group  / 
and  if  a  conqueror  had  returned  from  the  most  sacred  pa 
triotic  service  he  could  not  have  received  a  heartier  ovation 
than  that  bestowed  upon  the  graceless  fugitive.  He  bowed 
from  side  to  side  in  his  own  lordly  way,  and  flourished  and 
extended  his  pudgy  palm  in  courtly  courtesy. 

Mrs.  Belcher  sat  back  in  her  seat,  shrinking  from  all  these 
demonstrations,  for  she  knew  that  her  husband  was  unworthy 
of  them.  The  carriages  disappeared  in  the  distance,  and 
then — sad,  suspicious,  uncommunicative — the  men  went  off  to 
draw  their  last  dividend  and  go  about  their  work.  They 
fought  desperately  against  their  own  distrust.  In  the  propor 
tion  that  they  doubted  the  proprietor  they  were  ready  to  de 
fend  him ;  but  there  was  not  a  man  of  them  who  had  not  been 
fairly  warned  that  he  was  running  his  own  risk,  and  who  had 
aot  sought  for  the  privilege  of  throwing  away  his  money. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

IN  WHICH    JIM    ENLARGES    HIS    PLANS    FOR  A   HOUSE,   ArfD    COM 
PLETES    HIS   PLANS   FOR   A    HOUSE-KEEPER. 

WHEN,  at  last,  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict  were  left  alone  by 
the  departure  of  Mr.  Balfour  and  the  two  lads;,  they  sat  as 
if  they  had  been  stranded  by  a  sudden  squall  after  a  long  and 
pleasant  voyage.  Mr.  Benedict  was  plunged  into  profound 
dejection,  and  Jim  saw  that  he  rnus.  be  at  once  and  per 
sistently  diverted. 

"I  telled  Mr.  Balfour,"  said  he,  "afore  he  went  away, 
about  the  house.  I  telled  him  about  the  stoop,  an'  the  chairs, 
an'  the  ladder  for  posies  to  run  up  on,  an'  I  said  somethin' 
about  cubberds  and  settles,  an'  other  thingembobs  that  have 
come  into  my  mind;  an'  says  he:  'Jim,  be  ye  goin'  to 
splice?'  An'  says  I:  'If  so  be  I  can  find  a  little  stick  as'll 
answer,  it  wouldn't  be  strange  if  I  did.'  'Well,'  says  he. 
'now's  yer  time,  if  ye're  ever  goin'  to,  for  the  hay-day  of 
your  life  is  a  passin'  away.'  An'  says  I:  'No,  ye  don't. 
My  hay-day  has  jest  come,  and  my  grass  is  dry  an'  it'll  keep. 
It's  good  for  fodder,  an'  it  wouldn't  make  a  bad  bed.'  " 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  inquired  Mr.  Benedict. 

"Says  he:  'I  shouldn't  wonder  if  ye  was  right.  Have 
ye  found  the  woman  ?'  '  Yes/  says  I.  '  I  have  found  a 
genuine  creetur.'  An' says  he:  'What  is  her  name  ?'  An* 
says  I :  'That's  tellin'.  It's  a  name  as  oughter  be  changed, 
an'  it  won't  be  my  fault  if  it  ain't.'  An'  then  says  he :  'Can 
I  be  of  any  'sistance  to  ye  ?'  An*  says  I :  '  No.  Courtin'  is 
like  dyin' ;  ye  can't  trust  it  to  another  feller.  Ye've  jest  got 
to  go  it  alone.'  An'  then  he  laughed,  an'  says  he:  'Jim,  J 

155 


156  SEVENOAKS. 

wish  ye  good  luck,  an'  I  hope  ye'll  live  to  have  a  little  feller 
o'  yer  own.'  An'  says  I :  '  Old  Jerusalem  !  If  I  ever  have  a 
tittle  feller  o'  my  own,'  says  I,  '  this  world  will  have  to  spread 
to  hold  me.'" 

Then  Jim  put  his  head  down  between  his  knees,  and  thought. 
When  it  emerged  from  its  hiding  his  eyes  were  moist,  and  he 
said: 

"  Ye  must  'scuse  me,  Mr.  Benedict,  for  ye  know  what  the 
feelin's  of  a  pa  is.  It  never  come  to  me  in  this  way  afore." 

Benedict  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  new  exhibition  of 
sympathy;  for  Jim,  in  the  comprehension  of  his  feelings  in 
the  possible  event  of  possessing  offspring,  had  arrived  at  a 
more  vivid  sense  of  his  companion's  bereavement. 

"Now,  I  tell  ye  what  it  is,"  said  Jim.  "You  an'  me  has 
got  to  be  brushin'  round.  We  can't  set  here  an'  think  about 
them  that's  gone ;  an'  now  I  want  to  tell  ye  'bout  anothei 
thing  that  Mr.  Balfour  said.  Says  he:  'Jim,  if  ye're  goin' 
to  build  a  house,  build  a  big  one,  an'  keep  a  hotel.  I'll  fill  it 
all  summer  for  ye,'  says  he.  1 1  know  lots  o'  folks,'  says  he, 
'  that  would  be  glad  to  stay  with  ye,  an'  pay  all  ye  axed  'era. 
Build  a  big  house,'  says  he,  'an'  take  yer  time  for't,  an'  when 
ye  git  ready  for  company,  let  a  feller  know.'  I  tell  ye,  it 
made  my  eyes  stick  out  to  think  on't.  'Jim  Fenton's  hotel ! 
says  I.  'I  don't  b'lieve  I  can  swing  it.'  '  If  ye  want  an^ 
more  money'n  ye've  got,'  says  he,  'call  on  me.'  ' 

The  idea  of  a  hotel,  with  all  its  intrusions  upon  his  privacy 
and  all  its  diversions,  was  not  pleasant  to  Mr.  Benedict ;  but 
he  saw  at  once  that  no  woman  worthy  of  Jim  could  be  expected 
to  be  happy  in  the  woods  entirely  deprived  of  society.  It 
would  establish  a  quicker  and  more  regular  line  of  communi* 
cation  with  Sevenoaks,  and  thus  make  a  change  from  its  life 
to  that  of  the  woods  a  smaller  hardship.  But  the  building 
of  a  large  house  was  a  great  enterprise  for  two  men  to  under 
take. 

The  first  business  was  to  draw  a  plan.  In  this  work  Mr. 
Benedict  was  entirely  at  home.  He  could  not  only  make 


SEVENOAKS.  157 

plans  of  the  two  floors,  but  an  elevation  of  the  front ;  and 
when,  after  two  days  of  work,  with  frequent  questions  and 
examinations  by  Jim,  his  drawings  were  concluded,  they  held 
a  long  discussion  over  them.  It  was  all  very  wonderful  to 
Jim,  and  all  very  satisfactory — at  least,  he  said  so ;  and  yet  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  entirely  content. 

"  Tell  me,  Jim,  just  what  the  trouble  is,"  said  his  architect, 
"  for  I  see  there's  something  wanting." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Jim,  "jest  where  ye're  goin'  to 
put  'im." 

"Who  do  you  mean?  Mr.  Balfour?" 

"No;  I  don't  mean  no  man." 

"Harry?  Thede?" 

"  No  ;  I  mean,  s'posin'.  Can't  we  put  on  an  ell  when  we 
want  it?" 

"Certainly." 

"An'  now,  can't  ye  make  yer  picter  look  kind  o'  cozy  like, 
with  a  little  feller  playin'  on  the  ground  down  there  afore  the 
stoop?" 

Mr.  Benedict  not  only  could  do  this,  but  he  did  it ;  and 
then  Jim  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  for  a  long  time. 

"  Well,  little  feller,  ye  can  play  thar  till  ye're  tired,  right  on 
that  paper,  an'  then  ye  must  come  into  the  house,  an'  let  yei 
ma  wash  yer  face;"  and  then  Jim,  realizing  the  comical  side 
of  all  this  charming  dream,  laughed  till  the  woods  rang 
again,  and  Benedict  laughed  with  him.  It  was  a  kind  of 
clearing  up  of  the  cloud  of  sentiment  that  enveloped  them 
both,  and  they  were  ready  to  work.  They  settled,  after  a 
long  discussion,  upon  the  site  of  the  new  house,  which  was 
back  from  the  river,  near  Number  Ten.  There  were  just  three 
things  to  be  done  during  the  remainder  of  the  autumn  and 
the  approaching  winter.  A  cellar  was  to  be  excavated,  the 
timber  for  the  frame  of  the  new  house  was  to  be  cut  and 
hewed,  and  the  lumber  was  to  be  purchased  and  drawn  to  the 
river.  Before  the  ground  should  freeze,  they  determined  to 
complete  the  cellar,  which  was  to  be  made  small — to  be,  in- 


r$S  SEVENOAKS. 

deed,  little  more  than  a  cave  beneath  the  house,  that  would  ac 
commodate  such  stores  as  it  would  be  necessary  to  shield  from 
the  frost.  A  fortnight  of  steady  work,  by  both  the  men,  not 
only  completed  the  excavation,  but  built  the  wall. 

Then  came  the  selection  of  timber  for  the  frame.  It  was 
all  found  near  the  spot,  and  for  many  days  the  sound  of  two 
axes  was  heard  through  the  great  stillness  of  the  Indian  sum 
mer  ;  for  at  this  time  nature,  as  well  as  Jim,  was  in  a  dream. 
Nuts  were  falling  from  the  hickory-trees,  and  squirrels  were 
leaping  along  the  ground,  picking  up  the  stores  on  which  they 
were  to  subsist  during  the  long  winter  that  lay  before  them. 
The  robins  had  gone  away  southward,  and  the  voice  of  the 
thrushes  was  still.  A  soft  haze  steeped  the  wilderness  in  its 
tender  hue — a  hue  that  carried  with  it  the  fragrance  of  burn 
ing  leaves.  At  some  distant  forest  shrine,  the  priestly  winds 
were  swinging  their  censers,  and  the  whole  temple  was  per 
vaded  with  the  breath  of  worship.  Blue-jays  were  screaming 
among  leathern-leaved  oaks,  and  the  bluer  kingfishers  made 
their  long  diagonal  flights  from  side  to  side  of  the  river,  chat' 
tering  like  magpies.  There  was  one  infallible  sign  that  winter 
was  close  upon  the  woods.  The  wild  geese,  flying  over  Num 
ber  Nine,  had  called  to  Jim  with  news  from  the  Arctic,  and 
he  had  looked  up  at  the  huge  harrow  scraping  the  sky,  and 
said :  t(  I  seen  ye,  an'  I  know  what  ye  mean." 

The  timber  was  cut  of  appropriate  length  and  rolled  upon 
low  scaffoldings,  where  it  could  be  conveniently  hewed  dur 
ing  the  winter ;  then  two  days  were  spent  in  hunting  and  in 
setting  traps  for  sable  and  otter,  and  then  the  two  men  were 
ready  to  arrange  for  the  lumber. 

This  involved  the  necessity  of  a  calculation  of  the  materials 
required,  and  definite  specifications  of  the  same.  Not  only 
this,  but  it  required  that  Mr.  Benedict  should  himself  accom 
pany  Jim  on  the  journey  to  the  mill,  three  miles  beyond 
Mike  Conlin's  house.  He  naturally  shrank  from  this 
exposure  of  himself;  but  so  long  as  he  was  not  in  danger  of 
coming  in  contact  with  Mr.  Belcher,  or  with  any  one  whom 


SEVENOAKS.  159 

he  had  previously  known,  he  was  persuaded  that  the  trip 
would  not  be  unpleasant  to  him.  In  truth,  as  he  grew 
stronger  personally,  and  felt  that  his  boy  was  out  of  harm's 
way,  he  began  to  feel  a  certain  indefinite  longing  to  see 
something  of  the  world  again,  and  to  look  into  new  faces. 

As  for  Jim,  he  had  no  idea  of  returning  to  Number  Nine 
again  until  he  had  seen  Sevenoaks,  and  that  one  most  in 
teresting  person  there  with  whom  he  had  associated  his  future, 
although  he  did  not  mention  his  plan  to  Mr.  Benedict. 

The  ice  was  already  gathering  in  the  stream,  and  the 
winter  was  descending  so  rapidly  that  they  despaired  of 
taking  their  boat  down  to  the  old  landing,  and  permitting  it 
<o  await  their  return,  as  they  would  be  almost  certain  to  find 
tt  frozen  in,  and  be  obliged  to  leave  it  there  until  spring. 
They  were  compelled,  therefore,  to  make  the  complete  jour- 
tiey  on  foot,  following  to  the  lower  landing  the  "  tote-road  " 
that  Mike  Conlin  had  taken  when  he  came  to  them  on  his 
journey  of  discovery. 

They  started  early  one  morning  about  the  middle  of 
November,  and,  as  the  weather  was  cold,  Turk  bore  them 
iompany.  Though  Mr.  Benedict  had  become  quite  hardy, 
ihe  tramp  of  thirty  miles  over  the  frozen  ground,  that  had 
already  received  a  slight  covering  of  snow,  was  a  cruel  one, 
And  taxed  to  their  utmost  his  powers  of  endurance. 

Jim  carried  the  pack  of  provisions,  and  left  his  companion 
without  a  load ;  so  by  steady,  quiet,  and  almost  speechless 
walking,  they  made  the  entire  distance  to  Mike  Conlin's 
house  before  the  daylight  had  entirely  faded  from  the  pale, 
cold  sky.  Mike  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  could  hardly  be 
made  to  believe  that  the  hearty-looking,  comfortably-dressed 
man  whom  he  found  in  Mr.  Benedict  was  the  same  whom 
he  had  left  many  months  before  in  the  rags  of  a  pauper  and 
the  emaciation  of  a  feeble  convalescent.  The  latter  ex 
pressed  to  Mike  the  obligations  he  felt  for  the  service  which 
Jim  informed  him  had  been  rendered  by  the  good-natured 
Irishman,  and  Mike  blushed  while  protesting  that  it  was 


160  SEVENOAKS. 

nothing  at  all,  at  all,"  and  thinking  of  the  hundred  dollars 
that  he  earned  so  easily. 

"Did  ye  know,  Jim,"  said  Mike,  to  change  the  subject^ 
11  that  owld  Belcher  has  gone  to  New  Yorrk  to  live?" 

"No." 

"  Yis,  the  whole  kit  an'  boodle  of  'em  is  gone,  an*  the 
purty  man  wid  'em." 

"  Hallelujer!"  roared  Jim. 

"Yis,  and  be  gorry  he's  got  me  hundred  dollars,"  said 
Mike. 

"What  did  ye  gi'en  it  to  'im  for,  Mike?  I  didn't  take 
ye  for  a  fool." 

"  Well,  ye  see,  I  wint  in  for  ile,  like  the  rist  of  'em.  Och ! 
ye  shud  'ave  seen  the  owld  feller  talk  !  '  Mike,'  says  he, 
'  ye  can't  afford  to  lose  this,'  says  he.  '  I  should  miss  me 
slape,  Mike,'  says  he,  '  if  it  shouldn't  all  come  back  to  ye.' 
'  An'  if  it  don't,'  says  I,  '  there'll  be  two  uv  us  lyin'  awake, 
an'  ye' 11  have  plinty  of  company ;  an'  what  they  lose  in 
dhraimin'  they'll  take  out  in  cussin','  says  I.  '  Mike,'  says  he, 
'  ye  hadn't  better  do  it,  an'  if  ye  do,  I  don't  take  no  resk  ;' 
an'  says  I,  'they're  all  goin'  in,  an'  I'm  goin'  wid  'em.' 
'Very  well,'  says  he,  lookin'  kind  o'  sorry,  and  then,  be 
gorry,  he  scooped  the  whole  pile,  an'  barrin'  the  ile  uv  hi* 
purty  spache,  divil  a  bit  have  I  seen  more  nor  four  dollars." 

"  Divil  a  bit  will  ye  see  agin,"  said  Jim,  shaking  his  head. 
"Mike,  ye'reafool." 

"  That's  jist  what  I  tell  mesilf,"  responded  Mike;  "but 
there's  betther  music  nor  hearin'  it  repaited ;  an'  I've  got 
betther  company  in  it,  barrin'  Mr.  Benedict's  presence,  nor 
I've  got  here  in  me  own  house." 

Jim,  finding  Mike  a  little  sore  over  his  loss,  refrained  from 
further  allusion  to  it ;  and  Mr.  Benedict  declared  himself 
ready  for  bed.  Jim  had  impatiently  waited  for  this  an 
nouncement,  for  he  was  anxious  to  have  a  long  talk  with 
Mike  about  the  new  house,  the  plans  for  which  he  had 
brought  with  him. 


SEVENOAKS.  i6\ 

"Clear  off  yer  table,"  said  Jim,  "  an'  peel  yer  eyes,  Mike, 
for  I'm  goin'  to  show  ye  somethin'  that'll  s'prise  ye." 

When  his  order  was  obeyed,  he  unrolled  the  precious 
plans. 

"  Now,  ye  must  remember,  Mike,  that  this  isn't  the  house; 
these  is  plans,  as  Mr.  Benedict  has  drawed.  That's  the 
kitchen,  and  that's  the  settin' -room,  and  that's  the  cubberd, 
and  that's  the  bedroom  for  us,  ye  know,  and  on  that  other 
paper  is  the  chambers." 

Mike  looked  at  it  all  earnestly,  and  with  a  degree  of  awe, 
and  then  shook  his  head. 

"  Jim,"  said  he,  "I  don't  want  to  bodder  ye,  but  ye've 
jist  been  fooled.  Don't  ye  see  that  divil  a  place  'ave  ye  got 
for  the  pig?" 

"  Pig!  "  exclaimed  Jim,  with  contempt.  "D'ye  s'pose  I 
build  a  house  fora  pig?  I  ain't  no  pig,  an*  she  ain't  no 

Pig." 

"The  proof  of  the  puddin'  is  in  the  atin',  Jim;  an'  ye 
don't  know  the  furrst  thing  about  house-kapin'.  Ye  can  no 
more  kape  house  widout  a  pig,  nor  ye  can  row  yer  boat  widout 
a  paddle.  I'm  an  owld  house-kaper,  Jim,  an'  I  know ;  an*  a 
man  that  don't  tend  to  his  pig  furrst,  is  no  betther  nor  a  b'y. 
Ye  might  put  'im  in  Number  Tin,  but  he'd  go  through  i? 
quicker  nor  water  through  a  baskit.  Don't  talk  to  me  about 
house-kapin'  widout  a  pig,  Ye  might  give  'im  that  little 
shtoop  to  lie  on,  an'  let  'im  run  under  the  house  to  slape. 
That  wouldn't  be  bad  now,  Jim?  " 

The  last  suggestion  was  given  in  a  tender,  judicial  tone,  for 
Mike  saw  that  Jim  was  disappointed,  if  not  disgusted.  Jim 
was  looking  at  his  beautiful  stoop,  and  thinking  of  the 
pleasant  dreams  he  had  associated  with  it.  The  idea  of 
Mike's  connecting  the  life  of  a  pig  with  that  stoop  was  more 
than  he  could  bear. 

"Why,  Mike,"  said  he,  in  an  injured  tone,  "  that  stoop's 
the  place  where  she's  agoin'  to  set." 

"  Oh !  I  didn't  know,  Jim,   ye  was  agoin'   tc  kape  hins. 


i62  SEVENOAKS. 

Now,  ef  you're  agoin'  to  kape  hins,  ye  kin  do  as  ye  plase, 
Jim,  in  coorse  j  but  ye  musn't  forgit  the  pig,  Jim.  Be  gorry, 
he  ates  everything  that  nobody  ilse  kin  ate,  and  then  ye  kin 
ate  him." 

Mike  had  had  his  expression  of  opinion,  and  shown  to  his 
own  satisfaction  that  his  judgments  were  worth  something. 
Having  done  this,  he  became  amiable,  sympathetic,  and  even 
admiring.  Jim  was  obliged  to  tell  him  the  same  things  a 
great  many  times,  and  to  end  at  last  without  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  the  Irishman  comprehended  the  precious 
plans.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  make  a  confidant  of 
Mike,  but  the  Irishman's  obtuseness  and  inability  to  compre- 
aend  his  tenderer  sentiments,  repulsed  him,  and  drove  him 
back  upon  himself. 

Then  came  up  the  practical  question  concerning  Mike's 
ability  to  draw  the  lumber  for  the  new  house.  Mike  thought 
he  could  hire  a  horse  for  his  keeping,  and  a  sled  for  a  small 
sum,  that  would  enable  him  to  double  his  facilities  for 
doing  the  job;  and  then  a  price  for  the  work  was  agreed 
upon. 

The  next  morning,  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict  pursued  their 
journey  to  the  lumber-mill,  and  there  spent  the  day  in  select 
ing  their  materials,  and  filling  out  their  specifications. 

The  first  person  Mr.  Benedict  saw  on  entering  the  mill  was 
a  young  man  from  Sevenoaks,  whom  he  had  known  many 
years  before.  He  colored  as  if  he  had  been  detected  in  a 
crime,  but  the  man  gave  him  no  sign  that  the  recognition  was 
mutual.  His  old  acquaintance  had  no  memory  of  him,  appa 
rently  ;  and  then  he  realized  the  change  that  must  have  passed 
upon  him  during  his  long  invalidism  and  his  wonderful 
recovery. 

They  remained  with  the  proprietor  of  the  mill  during  the 
night. 

"  I  jest  call  'im  Number  Ten,"  said  Jim,  in  response  to  the 
inquiries  that  were  made  of  him  concerning  his  companion. 
"  He  never  telled  me  his  name,  an'  I  never  axed  'im.  I'm 


SEVENOAKS.  163 

'  Number  Nine/  an'  he's  '  Number  Ten/  and  that's  all  thar 
is  about  it." 

Jim's  oddities  were  known,  and  inquiries  were  pushed  no 
further,  though  Jim  gratuitously  informed  his  host  that  the 
man  had  come  into  the  woods  to  get  well  and  was  willing  to 
work  to  fill  up  his  time. 

On  the  following  morning,  Jim  proposed  to  Mr.  Benedict 
to  go  on  to  Sevenoaks  for  the  purchase  of  more  tools,  and  the 
nails  and  hardware  that  would  be  necessary  in  finishing  the 
house.  The  experience  of  the  latter  during  the  previous  day 
showed  him  that  he  need  not  fear  detection,  and,  now  that 
Mr.  Belcher  was  out  of  the  way,  Jim  found  him  possessed  by 
JL  strong  desire  to  make  the  proposed  visit.  The  road  was  not 
difficult,  and  before  sunset  the  two  men  found  themselves 
housed  in  the  humble  lodgings  that  had  for  many  years  been 
familiar  to  Jim.  Mr.  Benedict  went  into  the  streets,  and 
among  the  shops,  the  next  morning,  with  great  reluctance ; 
but  this  soon  wore  off  as  he  met  man  after  man  whom  he 
knew,  who  failed  to  recognize  him.  In  truth,  so  many  things 
had  happened,  that  the  memory  of  the  man  who,  long  ago, 
had  been  given  up  as  dead  had  passed  out  of  mind.  The 
people  would  have  been  no  more  surprised  to  see  a  sleeper  of 
the  village  cemetery  among  them  than  they  would  to  have 
realized  that  they  were  talking  with  the  insane  pauper  who 
had  fled,  as  they  supposed,  to  find  his  death  in  the  forest. 

They  had  a  great  deal  to  do  during  the  day,  and  when 
night  came,  Jim  could  no  longer  be  restrained  from  the  visit 
that  gave  significance,  not  only  to  his  journey,  but  to  all  his 
plans.  Not  a  woman  had  been  seen  on  the  street  during  the 
day  whom  Jim  had  not  scanned  with  an  anxious  and  greedy 
look,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  one  figure  that  was  the  desire 
of  his  eyes — but  he  had  not  seen  it.  Was  she  ill?  Had  she 
left  Sevenoaks  ?  He  would  not  inquire,  but  he  would  know 
before  he  slept. 

"  There's  a  little  business  as  must  be  did  afore  I  go,"  said 
Jim,  tc  Mr.  Benedict  in  the  evening,  "an'  I  sh'd  like  to  hav« 


1 64  SEVENOAKS. 

ye  go  with  me,  if  ye  feel  up  to't."  Mr.  Benedict  felt  up  to 
it,  and  the  two  went  out  together.  They  walked  along  the 
silent  street,  and  saw  the  great  mill,  ablaze  with  light.  The 
mist  from  the  falls  showed  white  in  the  frosty  air,  and,  with 
out  saying  a  word,  they  crossed  the  bridge,  and  climbed  a  hill 
dotted  with  little  dwellings. 

Jim's  heart  was  in  his  mouth,  for  his  fears  that  ill  had  hap 
pened  to  the  little  tailoress  had  made  him  nervous ;  and  when, 
at  length,  he  caught  sight  of  the  light  in  her  window,  he 
grasped  Mr.  Benedict  by  the  arm  almost  fiercely,  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"  It's  all  right.  The  little  woman's  in,  an'  waitin'.  Can 
you  see  my  har  ?' ' 

Having  been  assured  that  it  was  in  a  presentable  condition. 
Jim  walked  boldly  up  to  the  door  and  knocked.  Having 
been  admitted  by  the  same  girl  who  had  received  him  before, 
there  was  no  need  to  announce  his  name.  Both  men  went 
into  the  little  parlor  of  the  house,  and  the  girl  in  great  glee 
ran  upstairs  to  inform  Miss  Butterworth  that  there  were  two 
men  and  a  dog  in  waiting,  who  wished  to  see  her.  Miss  But 
terworth  came  down  from  busy  work,  like  one  in  a  hurry,  anc* 
was  met  by  Jim  with  extended  hand,  and  the  gladdest  smil* 
that  ever  illuminated  a  human  face. 

"How  fare  ye,  little  woman  ?"  said  he.  "I'm  glad  to  see 
ye — gladder  nor  I  can  tell  ye. ' ' 

There  was  something  in  the  greeting  so  hearty,  so  warm 
and  tender  and  full  of  faith,  that  Miss  Butterworth  was  touched. 
Up  to  that  moment  he  had  made  no  impression  upon  her 
heart,  and,  quite  to  her  surprise,  she  found  that  she  was  glad 
to  see  him.  She  had  had  a  world  of  trouble  since  she  had 
met  Jim,  and  the  great,  wholesome  nature,  fresh  from  the 
woods,  and  untouched  by  the  trials  of  those  with  whom  she 
was  in  daily  association,  was  like  a  breeze  in  the  feverish 
summer,  fresh  from  the  mountains.  She  was,  indeed,  glad  to 
see  him,  and  surprised  by  the  warmth  of  the  sentiment  that 
sprang  within  her  heart  in  response  to  his  greeting. 


SEVENOAKS.  165 

Miss  Butterworth  looked  inquiringly,  and  with  some  em 
barrassment  at  the  stranger. 

"  That's  one  o'  yer  old  friends,  little  woman,"  said  Jim. 
"Don't  give 'im  the  cold  shoulder.  'Tain't  every  day  as  a 
feller  comes  to  ye  from  the  other  side  o'  Jordan." 

Miss  Butterworth  naturally  suspected  the  stranger's  identity, 
and  was  carefully  studying  his  face  to  assure  herself  that  Mr. 
Benedict  was  really  in  her  presence.  When  some  look  of  his 
eyes,  or  motion  of  his  body,  brought  her  the  conclusive  evi 
dence  of  his  identity,  she  grasped  both  his  hands,  and  said : 

"Dear,  dear,  Mr.  Benedict!  how  much  you  have  suffered! 
I  thank  God  for  you,  and  for  the  good  friend  He  has  raised 
up  to  help  you.  It's  like  seeing  one  raised  from  the  dead." 

Then  she  sat  down  at  his  side,  and,  apparently  forgetting 
Jim,  talked  long  and  tenderly  of  the  past.  She  remembered 
Mrs.  Benedict  so  well !  And  she  had  so  many  times  carried 
lowers  and  placed  them  upon  her  grave  !  She  told  him  about 
the  troubles  in  the  town,  and  the  numbers  of  poor  people  who 
had  risked  their  little  all  and  lost  it  in  the  great  speculation  ; 
of  those  who  were  still  hoping  against  hope  that  they  should 
see  their  hard-earned  money  again  ;  of  the  execrations  that 
were  already  beginning  to  be  heaped  upon  Mr.  Belcher ;  of 
the  hard  winter  that  lay  before  the  village,  and  the  weariness 
of  sympathy  which  had  begun  to  tell  upon  her  energies.  Life, 
which  had  been  once  so  full  of  the  pleasure  of  action  and  in 
dustry,  was  settling,  more  and  more,  into  dull  routine,  and 
she  could  see  nothing  but  trouble  ahead,  for  herself  and  for 
all  those  in  whom  she  was  interested. 

Mr.  Benedict,  for  the  first  time  since  Jim  had  rescued  him 
from  the  alms-house,  became  wholly  himself.  The  sympathy 
of  a  woman  unlocked  his  heart,  and  he  talked  in  his  old  way. 
He  alluded  to  his  early  trials  with  entire  freedom,  to  his  long 
illness  and  mental  alienation,  to  his  hopes  for  his  boy,  and 
especially  to  his  indebtedness  to  Jim.  On  this  latter  point 
he  poured  out  his  whole  heart,  and  Jim  himself  was  deeply 
affected  by  the  revelation  of  his  gratitude.  He  tried  in  vain 


1 66  SEVEN  OAKS. 

to  protest,  for  Mr.  Benedict,  having  found  his  tongue,  would 
not  pause  until  he  had  laid  his  soul  bare  before  his  benefactor. 
The  effect  that  the  presence  of  the  sympathetic  woman  pro 
duced  upon  his  protege  put  a  new  thought  into  Jim's  mind. 
He  could  not  resist  the  conviction  that  the  two  were  suited  to 
one  another,  and  that  the  "little  woman,"  as  he  tenderly 
called  her,  would  be  happier  with  the  inventor  than  she  would 
be  with  him.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  but  even  then 
he  cast  aside  his  selfishness  with  a  great  struggle,  and  de 
termined  that  he  would  not  stand  in  the  way  of  an  event  which 
would  crush  his  fondest  hopes.  Jim  did  not  know  women  as 
well  as  he  thought  he  did.  He  did  not  see  that  the  two  met 
more  like  two  women  than  like  representatives  of  opposite 
sexes.  He  did  not  see  that  the  sympathy  between  the  pair  was 
tha  sympathy  of  two  natures  which  would  be  the  happiest  in 
dependence,  and  that  Miss  Butterworth  could  no  more  have 
chosen  Mr.  Benedict  for  a  husband  than  she  could  have  chosen 
her  own  sister. 

Mr.  Benedict  had  never  been  informed  by  Jim  of  the  name 
of  the  woman  whom  he  hoped  to  make  his  wife,  but  he  saw  at 
once,  and  with  sincere  pleasure,  that  he  was  in  her  presence ; 
and  when  he  had  finished  what  he  had  to  say  to  her,  and 
again  heartily  expressed  his  pleasure  in  renewing  her  acquaint 
ance,  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Jim,  I  will  not  cut  your  call  short,  but  I  must  get  back 
to  my  room  and  prepare  for  to-morrow's  journey.  Let  me 
leave  you  here,  and  find  my  way  back  to  my  lodgings  alone." 

"All  right,"  said  Jim,  "but  we  ain't  goin'  home  to- 
morrer. ' ' 

Benedict  bade  Miss  Butterworth  "good-night,"  but,  as  he 
was  passing  out  of  the  room,  Jim  remembered  that  there  was 
something  that  he  wished  to  say  to  him,  and  so  passed  out 
with  him,  telling  Miss  Butterworth  that  he  should  soon  return. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  them,  and  they  stood  alone 
in  the  darkness,  Jim  said,  with  his  hand  on  his  companion's 
shoulder,  and  an  awful  lie  in  his  throat : 


SEVENOAKS.  167 

"I  brung  ye  here  hopin'  ye'd  take  a  notion  to  this  little 
woman.  She'd  do  more  for  ye  nor  anybody  else.  She  can 
make  yer  clo'es,  and  be  good  company  for  ye,  an' " 

"  And  provide  for  me.     No,  that  won't  do,  Jim." 

"Well,  you'd  better  think  on't." 

"  No,  Jim,  I  shall  never  marry  again." 

"  Now's  yer  time.  Nobody  knows  what'll  happen  afore, 
nornin'." 

"I  understand  you,  Jim,"  said  Mr.  Benedict,  "and  I  know 
what  all  this  costs  you.  You  are  worthy  of  her,  and  I  hope 
you'll  get  her." 

Mr.  Benedict  tore  himself  away,  but  Jim  said,  "hold  on  a 
bit." 

Benedict  turned,  and  then  Jim  inquired : 

"Have  ye  got  a  piece  of  Indian  rubber?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  jest  rub  out  the  picter  of  the  little  feller  in  front  of 
the  stoop,  an'  put  in  Turk.  If  so  be  as  somethin'  happens  to 
night,  I  sh'd  want  to  show  her  the  plans  in  the  morn  in' ;  an' 
if  she  should  ax  me  whose  little  feller  it  was,  it  would  be  sort 
o'  cumbersome  to  tell  her,  an'  I  sh'd  have  to  lie  my  way  out 
on't." 

Mr.  Benedict  promised  to  attend  to  the  matter  before  he 
slept,  and  then  Jim  went  back  into  the  house. 

Of  the  long  conversation  that  took  place  that  night  between 
the  woodsman  and  the  little  tailoress  we  shall  present  no 
record.  That  he  pleaded  his  case  well  and  earnestly,  and 
without  a  great  deal  of  bashfulness,  will  be  readily  believed 
by  those  who  have  made  his  acquaintance.  That  the  woman, 
in  her  lonely  circumstances,  and  with  her  hungry  heart,  could 
lightly  refuse  the  offer  of  his  hand  and  life  was  an  impossi 
bility.  From  the  hour  of  his  last  previous  visit  she  had  un 
consciously  gone  toward  him  in  her  affections,  and  when  she 
met  him  she  learned,  quite  to  her  own  surprise,  that  her  heart 
had  found  its  home.  He  had  no  culture,  but  his  nature  was 
manly.  He  had  little  education,  but  his  heart  was  true,  and 


168  SEVENOAKS. 

his  arm  was  strong.  Compared  with  Mr.  Belcher,  with  all 
his  wealth,  he  was  nobility  personified.  Compared  with  the 
sordid  men  around  her,  with  whom  he  would  be  an  object  of 
supercilious  contempt,  he  seemed  like  a  demigod.  His  ec 
centricities,  his  generosities,  his  originalities  of  thought  and 
fancy,  were  a  feast  to  her.  There  was  more  of  him  than  she 
could  find  in  any  of  her  acquaintances — more  that  was  fresh, 
piquant,  stimulating,  and  vitally  appetizing.  Having  once 
come  into  contact  with  him,  the  influence  of  his  presence  had 
remained,  and  it  was  with  a  genuine  throb  of  pleasure  that 
>he  found  herself  with  him  again. 

When  he  left  her  that  night,  he  left  her  in  tears.  Bending 
over  her,  with  his  strong  hands  holding  her  cheeks  tenderly, 
as  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  he  kissed  her  forehead. 

"Little  woman,"  said  he,  "I  love  ye.  I  never  knowed 
what  love  was  afore,  an'  if  this  is  the  kind  o'  thing  they  have 
in  heaven,  I  want  to  go  there  when  you  do.  Speak  a  good 
word  for  me  when  ye  git  a  chance." 

Jim  walked  on  air  all  the  way  back  to  his  lodgings — walked 
Dy  his  lodgings — stood  still,  and  looked  up  at  the  stars — went 
out  to  the  waterfall,  and  watched  the  writhing,  tumbling, 
roaring  river — wrapped  in  transcendent  happiness.  Trans 
formed  and  transfused  by  love,  the  world  around  him  seemed 
quite  divine.  He  had  stumbled  upon  the  secret  of  his  ex 
istence.  He  had  found  the  supreme  charm  of  life.  He  felt 
that  a  new  principle  had  sprung  to  action  within  him,  which 
had  in  it  the  power  to  work  miracles  of  transformation.  He 
could  never  be  in  the  future  exactly  what  he  had  been  in  the 
past.  He  had  taken  a  step  forward  and  upward — a  step  irre 
traceable. 

Jim  had  never  prayed,  but  there  was  something  about  thb 
experience  that  lifted  his  heart  upward.  He  looked  up  to  the 
stars,  and  said  to  himself:  "  He's  somewhere  up  thar,  I 
s'pose.  I  can't  seen  'im,  an'  I  must  look  purty  small  to  Him 
if  He  can  seen  me  ;  but  I  hope  He  knows  as  I'm  obleeged 
to  'im,  more  nor  I  can  tell  'im.  When  He  made  a  good 


SEVENOAKS.  169 

woman,  He  did  the  biggest  thing  out,  an'  when  He  started  a 
man  to  lovin*  on  her,  He  set  up  the  best  business  that  was 
ever  did.  I  hope  He  likes  the  'rangement,  and  won't  put 
nothin'  in  the  way  on't  Amen!  I'm  goin'  to  bed." 

Jim  put  his  last  determination  into  immediate  execution. 
He  found  Mr.  Benedict  in  his  first  nap,  from  which  he  felt 
obliged  to  rouse  him,  with  the  information  that  it  was  "all 
right,"  and  that  the  quicker  the  house  was  finished  the  better 
it  would  be  for  all  concerned. 

The  next  morning,  Turk  having  been  substituted  for  the 
child  in  the  foreground  of  the  front  elevation  of  the  hotel, 
the  two  men  went  up  to  Miss  Butterworth's,  and  exhibited 
^.nd  talked  over  the  plans.  They  received  many  valuable 
hints  from  the  prospective  mistress  of  the  prospective  man 
sion.  The  stoop  was  to  be  made  broader  for  the  accommo 
dation  of  visitors ;  more  room  for  wardrobes  was  suggested, 
<vith  little  conveniences  for  housekeeping,  which  complicated 
che  plans  not  a  little.  Mr.  Benedict  carefully  noted  them  all, 
to  be  wrought  out  at  his  leisurec 

Jim's  love  had  wrought  a  miracle  in  the  night.  He  had 
eaid  nothing  about  it  to  his  architect,  but  it  had  lifted  him 
.ibove  the  bare  utilities  of  a  house,  so  that  he  could  see  the 
use  of  beauty.  "Thar's  one  thing,'3  said  he,  "as  thar 
hain't  none  on  us  thought  on ;  but  it  come  to  me  last  night. 
There's  a  place  where  the  two  ruffs  come  together  that  wants 
somethin',  an'  it  seems  to  me  it's  a  cupalo — some  thin'  to 
stan'  up  over  the  whole  thing,  and  say  to  them  as  comes, 
'  Hallelujer ! '  We've  done  a  good  deal  for  house-keepin', 
now  let's  do  somethin'  for  glory.  It's  jest  like  a  ribbon  on  a 
bonnet,  or  a  blow  on  a  potato-vine.  It  sets  it  off,  an'  makes 
a  kind  o'  Fourth  o*  July  for  it.  What  do  ye  say,  little 
woman?" 

The  "little  woman"  accepted  the  suggestion,  and  admitted 
that  it  would  at  least  make  the  building  look  more  like  a 
hotel. 

All  the  details  settled,  the  two  men  went  away,  and  poor 
8 


170  SEVENOAKS. 

Benedict  had  a  rough  time  in  getting  back  to  camp.  Jim 
could  hardly  restrain  himself  from  going  through  in  a  single 
day,  so  anxious  was  he  to  get  at  his  traps  and  resume  work 
upon  the  house.  There  was  no  fatigue  too  great  for  him 
now.  The  whole  world  was  bright  and  full  of  promise ;  and 
he  could  not  have  been  happier  or  more  excited  if  he  had 
be^n  sure  that  at  the  year's  end  a  palace  and  a  princess  were 
ttf  %e  the  reward  of  his  enterprise. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

INTRODUCES  SEVERAL   RESIDENTS   OF  SEVENOAKS   TO  THE 
METROPOLIS  AND  A  NEW   CHARACTER  TO   THE  READER. 


HARRY  BENEDICT  was  in  the  great  city.  When  his  story 
was  known  by  Mrs.  Balfour  —  a  quiet,  motherly  woman  —  and 
she  was  fully  informed  of  her  husband's  plans  concerning 
him,  she  received  him  with  a  cordiality  and  tenderness  which 
won  his  heart  and  made  him  entirely  at  home.  The  wonders 
of  the  shops,  the  wonders  of  the  streets,  the  wonders  of  the 
places  of  public  amusement,  the  music  of  the  churches,  the 
inspiration  of  the  great  tides  of  life  that  swept  by  him  on 
every  side,  were  in  such  sharp  contrast  to  the  mean  condi 
tions  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed,  that  he  could  hardly 
sleep.  Indeed,  the  dreams  of  his  unquiet  slumbers  were 
formed  of  less  attractive  constituents  than  the  visions  of  hi? 
waking  hours.  He  had  entered  a  new  world,  which  stimulated 
his  imagination,  and  furnished  him  with  marvelous  materials 
for  growth.  He  had  been  transformed  by  the  clothing  of  the 
lad  whose  place  he  had  taken  into  a  city  boy,  difficult  to  be 
recognized  by  those  who  had  previously  known  him.  He 
hardly  knew  himself,  and  suspected  his  own  consciousness  of 
cheating  him. 

For  several  days  he  had  amused  himself  in  his  leisure  hours 
by  watching  a  huge  house  opposite  to  that  of  the  Balfours, 
into  which  was  pouring  a  stream  of  furniture.  Huge  vans 
were  standing  in  front  of  it,  or  coming  and  departing,  from 
morning  until  night,  Dressing-cases,  book-cases,  chairs, 
mirrors,  candelabra,  beds,  tables  —  everything  necessary  and 


I7«  SEVENOAKS. 

elegant  in  the  furniture  of  a  palace,  were  unloaded  and 
carried  in.  All  day  long,  too,  he  could  see  through  the  large 
windows  the  active  figure  and  beautiful  face  of  a  woman  who 
seemed  to  direct  and  control  the  movements  of  all  who  were 
engaged  in  the  work. 

The  Balfours  had  noticed  the  same  thing;  but,  beyond 
wondering  who  was  rich  or  foolish  enough  to  purchase  and 
furnish  Palgrave's  Folly,  they  had  given  the  matter  no  atten 
tion.  They  were  rich,  of  good  family,  of  recognized  culture 
and  social  importance,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  them  that  any 
one  whom  they  would  care  to  know  would  be  willing  to 
occupy  a  house  so  pronounced  in  vulgar  display.  They  were 
people  whose  society  no  money  could  buy.  If  Robert  Belcher 
had  been  worth  a  hundred  millions  instead  of  one,  the  fact 
would  not  have  been  taken  into  consideration  in  deciding 
Any  social  question  relating  to  him. 

Finally  the  furnishing  was  complete;  the  windows  were 
polished,  the  steps  were  furbished,  and  nothing  seemed  to 
wait  but  the  arrival  of  the  family  for  which  the  dwelling  had 
been  prepared. 

One  late  afternoon,  before  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the 
streets,  he  could  see  that  the  house  was  illuminated ;  and  just 
as  the  darkness  came  on,  a  carriage  drove  up  and  a  family 
alighted.  The  doors  were  thrown  open,  the  beautiful  woman 
stood  upon  the  threshold,  and  all  ran  up  to  enter.  She 
kissed  the  lady  of  the  house,  kissed  the  children,  shook  hands 
cordially  with  the  gentleman  of  the  party,  and  then  the  doors 
were  swung  to,  and  they  were  shut  from  the  sight  of  the 
street ;  but  just  as  the  man  entered,  the  light  from  the  hall 
and  the  light  from  the  street  revealed  the  flushed  face  and 
portly  figure  of  Robert  Belcher. 

Harry  knew  him,  and  ran  down  stairs  to  Mrs.  Balfour,  pale 
and  agitated  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  "It  is  Mr.  Belcher," 
he  said,  "  and  I  must  go  back.  I  know  he'll  find  me ;  I  must 
go  back  to-morrow." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  family  could  pacify  him  and  as 


SEVENOAKS.  173 

sure  him  of  their  power  to  protect  him ;  but  they  did  it  at  last, 
though  they  left  him  haunted  with  the  thought  that  he  might 
be  exposed  at  any  moment  to  the  new  companions  of  his  life 
as  a  pauper  and  the  son  of  a  pauper.  The  great  humiliation 
had  been  burned  into  his  soul.  The  petty  tyrannies  of  Tom 
Buffum  had  cowed  him,  so  that  it  would  be  difficult  for  him 
ever  to  emerge  from  their  influence  into  a  perfectly  free  boy 
hood  and  manhood.  Had  they  been  continued  long  enough, 
they  would  have  ruined  him.  Once  he  had  been  entirely  in 
the  power  of  adverse  circumstances  and  a  brutal  will,  and  he 
was  almost  incurably  wounded. 

The  opposite  side  of  the  street  presented  very  different 
scenes.  Mrs.  Belcher  found,  through  the  neighborly  services 
of  Mrs.  Dillingham,  that  her  home  was  all  prepared  for  her, 
even  to  the  selection  and  engagement  of  her  domestic  service. 
A  splendid  dinner  was  ready  to  be  served,  for  which  Mr.  Bel 
cher,  who  had  been  in  constant  communication  with  his  con 
venient  and  most  officious  friend,  had  brought  the  silver;  and 
the  first  business  was  to  dispose  of  it.  Mrs.  Dillingham  led 
the  mistress  of  the  house  to  her  seat,  distributed  the  children, 
and  amused  them  all  by  the  accounts  she  gave  them  of  her 
efforts  to  make  their  entrance  and  welcome  satisfactory.  Mrs. 
Belcher  observed  her  quietly,  acknowledged  to  herself  the 
woman's  personal  charms — her  beauty,  her  wit,  her  humor, 
her  sprightliness,  and  her  more  than  neighborly  service  ;  but 
her  quick,  womanly  instincts  detected  something  which  she 
did  not  like.  She  saw  that  Mr.  Belcher  was  fascinated  by  her, 
and  that  he  felt  that  she  had  rendered  him  and  the  family  a 
service  for  which  great  gratitude  was  due ;  but  she  saw  that 
the  object  of  his  admiration  was  selfish — that  she  loved  power, 
delighted  in  having  things  her  own  way,  and,  more  than  all, 
was  determined  to  place  the  mistress  of  the  house  under  obli 
gations  to  her.  It  would  have  been  far  more  agreeable  to 
Mrs.  Belcher  to  find  everything  in  confusion,  than  to  have 
her  house  brought  into  habitable  order  by  a  stranger  in  whom 
«he  had  no  trust,  and  upon  whom  she  had  no  claim.  Mr. 


174  SEVENOAKS. 

Belcher  had  bought  the  house  without  her  knowledge  ;  Mrs. 
Dillingham  had  arranged  it  without  her  supervision.  She 
seemed  to  herself  to  be  simply  a  child,  over  whose  life  others 
had  assumed  the  offices  of  administration. 

Mrs.  Belcher  was  weary,  and  she  would  have  been  delighted 
to  be  alone  with  her  family,  but  here  was  an  intruder  whom 
she  could  not  dispose  of.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  go 
;yer  the  house  alone,  and  to  have  had  the  privilege  of  dis 
covery,  but  she  must  go  with  one  who  was  bent  on  showing 
her  everything,  and  giving  her  reasons  for  all  that  had  been 
done. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  was  determined  to  play  her  cards  well 
with  Mrs.  Belcher.  She  was  sympathetic,  confidential,  most 
respectful  \  but  she  found  that  lady  very  quiet.  Mr.  Belcher 
followed  them  from  room  to  room,  with  wider  eyes  for  Mrs. 
Dillingham  than  for  the  details  of  his  new  home.  Now  he 
could  see  them  together — the  mother  of  his  children,  and 
the  woman  who  had  already  won  his  heart  away  from  her. 
The  shapely  lady,  with  her  queenly  ways,  her  vivacity,  her 
graceful  adaptiveness  to  persons  and  circumstances,  was  sharp 
ly  contrasted  with  the  matronly  figure,  homely  manners,  and 
unresponsive  mind  of  his  wife.  He  pitied  his  wife,  he  pitied 
himself,  he  pitied  his  children,  he  almost  pitied  the  dumb 
walls  and  the  beautiful  furniture  around  him. 

Was  Mrs.  Dillingham  conscious  of  the  thoughts  which  pos 
sessed  him?  Did  she  know  that  she  was  leading  him  around 
his  house,  in  her  assumed  confidential  intimacy  with  his  wife, 
as  she  would  lead  a  spaniel  by  a  silken  cord  ?  Was  she  aware 
that,  as  she  moved  side  by  side  with  Mrs.  Belcher,  through 
the  grand  rooms,  she  was  displaying  herself  to  the  best  ad 
vantage  to  her  admirer,  and  that,  yoked  with  the  wifehood 
and  motherhood  of  the  house,  she  was  dragging,  while  he 
held,  the  plow  that  was  tilling  the  deep  carpets  for  tares  that 
might  be  reaped  in  harvests  of  unhappiness  ?  Would  she  have 
dropped  the  chain  if  she  had  ?  Not  she. 

To  fascinate,  and  make  a  fool  of,  a  man  who  was  strong  and 


SEVENOAKS.  175 

cunning  in  his  own  sphere  ;  to  have  a  hand — gloved  in  officious 
friendship — in  other  lives,  furnished  the  zest  of  her  unem 
ployed  life.  She  could  introduce  discord  into  a  family  without 
even  acknowledging  to  herself  that  she  had  done  it  wittingly. 
She  could  do  it,  and  weep  over  the  injustice  that  charged  her 
with  it.  Her  motives  were  always  pure !  She  had  always 
done  her  best  to  serve  her  friends !  and  what  were  her  re 
wards  ?  So  the  victories  which  she  won  by  her  smiles,  she  made 
permanent  by  her  tears.  So  the  woman  by  whose  intrigues 
the  mischief  came  was  transformed  into  a  victim,  from  whose 
shapely  shoulders  the  garment  of  blame  slipped  off,  that  soci 
ety  might  throw  over  them  the  robes  of  its  respectful  com 
miseration,  and  thus  make  her  more  interesting  and  lovely 
than  before  ! 

Mrs.  Belcher  measured  very  carefully,  or  apprehended  very 
readily,  the  kind  of  woman  she  had  to  deal  with,  and  felt  at 
once  that  she  was  n©  match  for  her.  She  saw  that  she  could 
not  shake  her  off,  so  long  as  it  was  her  choice  to  remain.  She 
received  from  her  no  direct  offense,  except  the  offense  of  her 
uninvited  presence ;  but  the  presence  meant  service,  and  so 
could  not  be  resented.  And  Mrs.  Belcher  could  be  of  so 
much  service  to  her  !  Her  life  was  so  lonely — so  meaningless  I 
It  would  be  such  a  joy  to  her,  in  a  city  full  of  shams,  to  have 
one  friend  who  would  take  her  good  offices,  and  so  help  to 
give  to  her  life  a  modicum  of  significance ! 

After  a  full  survey  of  the  rooms,  and  a  discussion  of  the 
beauties  and  elegancies  of  the  establishment,  they  all  descended 
to  the  dining-room,  and,  in  response  to  Mrs.  Dillinghan  's 
order,  were  served  with  tea. 

"  You  really  must  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Belcher,"  dd  the  beau 
tiful  lady  deprecatingly,  "but  I  have  been  here  for  a  week, 
and  it  seems  so  much  like  my  own  home,  that  I  ordered  the 
tea  without  thinking  that  I  am  the  guest  and  you  are  the  mis 
tress." 

"Certainly,  and  I  am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you;'1 
and  then  feeling  that  she  had  been  a  little  untrue  to  herself 


176  SEVENOAKS. 

Mrs.  Belcher  added  bluntly :  "  I  feel  myself  in  a  very  awkward 
situation — obliged  to  one  on  whom  I  have  no  claim,  and  one 
whom  I  can  never  repay." 

"  The  reward  of  a  good  deed  is  in  the  doing,  I  assure  you,'* 
said  Mrs.  Dillingham,  sweetly.  "All  I  ask  is  that  you  make 
me  serviceable  to  you.  I  know  all  about  the  city,  and  all 
about  its  ways.  You  can  call  upon  me  for  anything  ;  and  now 
let's  talk  about  the  house.  Isn't  it  lovely?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Belcher,  "too  lovely.  While  so  many 
are  poor  around  us,  it  seems  almost  like  an  insult  to  them  to 
live  in  such  a  place,  and  flaunt  our  wealth  in  their  faces.  Mr. 
Belcher  is  very  generous  toward  his  family,  and  I  have  no  wish 
to  complain,  but  I  would  exchange  it  all  for  my  little  room  in 
Sevenoaks." 

Mr.  Belcher,  who  had  been  silent  and  had  watched  with 
curious  and  somewhat  anxious  eyes  the  introductory  passage 
of  this  new  acquaintance,  was  rasped  by  Mrs.  Belcher's  remark 
into  saying:  "That's  Mrs.  Belcher,  all  over!  that'.,  th«» 
woman,  through  and  through  !  As  if  a  man  hadn't  a  right  t<> 
do  what  he  chooses  with  his  money  !  If  men  are  poor,  why 
don't  they  get  rich?  They  have  the  same  chance  I  had  ;  and 
there  isn't  one  of  'em  but  would  be  glad  to  change  places 
with  me,  and  flaunt  his  wealth  in  my  face.  There's  a  precious 
lot  of  humbug  about  the  poor  which  won't  wash  with  me. 
We're  all  alike." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  shook  her  lovely  head. 

"You  men  are  so  hard,"  she  said ;  "and  Mrs.  Belcher  has 
the  right  feeling;  but  I'm  sure  she  takes  great  comfort  in 
helping  the  poor.  What  would  you  do,  my  dear,  if  you  had 
no  money  to  help  ;hc  poor  ,'.:U\." 

"That's  just  what  I've  asked  her  a  hundred  times,"  said 
Mr.  Belcher.  "What  would  she  do?  That's  something  she 
never  thinks  of." 

Mrs.  Belcher  shook  her  head,  in  return,  but  made  no  reply. 
She  knew  that  the  poor  would  have  been  better  off  if  Mr. 
micher  had  never  lived,  and  that  the  wealth  which  surrounded 


SEVENOAKS.  177 

her  with  luxuries  was  taken  from  the  poor.  It  was  this,  at 
the  bottom,  that  made  her  sad,  and  this  that  had  filled  her  for 
many  years  with  discontent. 

When  the  tea  was  disposed  of,  Mrs.  Dillingham  rose  to  go. 
She  lived  a  few  blocks  distant,  and  it  was  necessary  for  Mr. 
Belcher  to  walk  home  with  her.  This  he  was  glad  to  do, 
though  she  assured  him  that  it  was  entirely  unnecessary. 
When  they  were  in  the  street,  walking  at  a  slow  pace,  the 
lady,  in  her  close,  confiding  way,  said  : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  take  a  great  fancy  to  Mrs.  Belcher?" 

"Do  you,  really?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  think  she's  lovely;  but  I'm  afraid  sh 
doesn't  like  me.  I  can  read — oh,  I  can  read  pretty  well. 
She  certainly  didn't  like  it  that  I  had  arranged  everything. 
and  was  there  to  meet  her.  But  wasn't  she  tired?  Wasn't 
she  very  tired?  There  certainly  was  something  that  was 
wrong." 

"  I  think  your  imagination  had  something  to  do  with 
it,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  although  he  knew  that  she  was 
right. 

"No,  I  can  read;"  and  Mrs.  Dillingham's  voice  trembled. 
'•'  If  she  could  only  know  how  honestly  I  have  tried  to  serve 
her,  a  id  how  disappointed  I  am  that  my  service  has  not  been 
taken  in  good  part,  I  am  sure  that  her  amiable  heart  would 
forgive  me." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  took  out  her  handkerchief,  near  a  street 
lamp,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

What  could  Mr.  Belcher  do  with  this  beautiful,  susceptible, 
sensitive  creature  ?  What  could  he  do  but  reassure  he^  I 
Under  the  influence  of  her  emotion,  his  wife's  offense  grew 
flagrant,  and  he  began  by  apologizing  for  her,  and  ended  by 
blanking  her. 

'*  Oh  !    she  was  tired — she  was  very  tired.     That  was  all 
I'v*  laid  up  nothing  against  her ;  but  you  know  I  was  disap 
pointed,  after  I  had  done  so  much.     I  shall  be  all  over  it  h. 
t»-<2  morning,  and  she  will  see  it  differently  then.     I  don't 


178  SEVENOAKS. 

know  but  I  should  have  been  troubled  to  find  a  strangei 
in  ray  house.  I  think  I  should.  Now,  you  really  must 
promise  not  to  say  a  word  of  all  this  talk  to  your  poor  wife. 
I  wouldn't  have  you  do  it  for  the  world.  If  you  are  my  friend 
(pressing  his  arm),  you  will  let  the  matter  drop  just  where  it 
is.  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  be  the  occasion  of  any  dif 
ferences  in  your  home." 

So  it  was  a  brave,  true,  magnanimous  nature  that  was  lean 
ing  so  tenderly  upon  Mr.  Belcher's  arm !  And  he  felt  that 
no  woman  who  was  not  either  shabbily  perverse,  or  a  fool, 
could  misinterpret  her.  He  knew  that  his  wife  had  been  an 
noyed  at  finding  Mrs.  Dillingham  in  the  house.  He  dimly 
comprehended,  too,  that  her  presence  was  an  indelicate  intru 
sion,  but  her  intentions  were  so  good ! 

Mrs.  Dillingham  knew  exactly  how  to  manipulate  the  coarse 
man  at  her  side,  and  her  relations  to  him  and  his  wife.  Her 
bad  wisdom  was  not  the  result  of  experience,  though  she  had 
had  enough  of  it,  but  the  product  of  an  instinct  which  was  just 
as  acute,  and  true,  and  serviceable,  ten  years  earlier  in  her  life 
as  it  was  then.  She  timed  the  walk  to  her  purpose ;  and 
when  Mr.  Belcher  parted  with  her,-  he  went  back  leisurely  to 
tiis  great  house,  more  discontented  with  his  wife  than  he  had 
ever  been.  To  find  such  beauty,  such  helpfulness,  such  sym 
pathy,  charity,  forbearance,  and  sensitiveness,  all  combined 
in  one  woman,  and  that  woman  kind  and  confidential  toward 
him,  brought  back  to  him  the  days  of  his  youth,  in  the  excite 
ment  of  a  sentiment  which  he  had  supposed  was  lost  beyond 
recall. 

He  crossed  the  street  on  arriving  at  his  house,  and  took  an 
evening  survey  of  his  grand  mansion,  whose  lights  were  still 
flaming  through  the  windows.  The  passengers  jostled  him  as 
he  looked  up  at  his  dwelling,  his  thoughts  wandering  back  to 
the  woman  with  whom  he  had  so  recently  parted. 

He  knew  that  his  heart  was  dead  toward  the  woman  who 
awaited  his  return.  He  felt  that  it  was  almost  painfully  alive 
toward  the  one  he  had  left  behind  him,  and  it  was  with  the 


SEVEN  OAKS.  179 

embarrassment  of  conscious  guilt  that  he  rang  the  bell  at  his 
own  door,  and  stiffened  himself  to  meet  the  honest  woman  who 
had  borne  his  children.  Even  the  graceless  touch  of  an  intri 
guing  woman's  power — even  the  excitement  of  something  like 
love  toward  one  who  was  unworthy  of  his  love — had  softened 
him,  so  that  his  conscience  could  move  again.  He  felt  that 
his  eyes  bore  a  secret,  and  he  feared  that  his  wife  could  read 
it.  And  yet,  who  was  to  blame  ?  Was  anybody  to  blame? 
Could  anything  that  had  happened  have  been  helped  or 
avoided  ? 

He  entered,  determining  to  abide  by  Mrs.  Dillingham's  in 
junction  of  silence.  He  found  the  servants  extinguishing  the 
lights,  and  met  the  information  that  Mrs.  Belcher  had  retired. 
His  huge  pile  of  trunks  had  come  during  his  absence,  and  re 
mained  scattered  in  the  hall.  The  sight  offended  him,  but, 
beyond  a  muttered  curse,  he  said  nothing,  and  sought  his  bed. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  not  in  good  humor  when  he  rose  the  next 
morning.  He  found  the  trunks  where  he  left  them  on  the 
previous  evening;  and  when  he  called  for  the  servants  to 
carry  them  upstairs,  he  was  met  by  open  revolt.  They  were 
not  porters,  and  they  would  not  lift  boxes ;  that  sort  of  work 
was  not  what  they  were  engaged  for.  No  New  York  family 
expected  service  of  that  kind  from  those  who  were  not  hired 
for  it. 

The  proprietor,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  exacting  any 
service  from  any  man  or  woman  in  his  employ  that  he  desired, 
was  angry.  He  would  have  turned  every  one  of  them  out  of 
the  house,  if  it  had  not  been  so  inconvenient  for  him  to  lose 
them  then.  Curses  trembled  upon  his  lips,  but  he  curbed 
them,  inwardly  determining  to  have  his  revenge  when  the  op 
portunity  should  arise.  The  servants  saw  his  eyes,  and  went 
back  to  their  work  somewhat  doubtful  as  to  whether  they  had 
made  a  judicious  beginning.  They  were  sure  they  had  not, 
when,  two  days  afterward,  every  one  of  them  was  turned  out 
of  the  house,  and  a  new  set  installed  in  their  places. 

He  called  for  Phipps,  and  Phipps  was  at  the  stable.    Putting 


i8o  SEVENOAKS. 

on  his  hat,  he  went  to  bring  his  faithful  servitor  of  Sevenoaks, 
and  bidding  him  find  a  porter  in  the  streets  and  remove  the 
trunks  at  Mrs.  Belcher's  direction,  he  sat  down  at  the  window 
to  watch  for  a  passing  newsboy.  The  children  came  down, 
cross  and  half  sick  with  their  long  ride  and  their  late  dinner. 
Then  it  came  on  to  rain  in  a  most  dismal  fashion,  and  he  saw 
before  him  a  day  of  confinement  and  ennui.  Without  men 
tal  resource — unable  to  find  any  satisfaction  except  in  action 
and  intrigue — the  prospect  was  anything  but  pleasant.  The 
house  was  large,  and,  on  a  dark  day,  gloomy.  His  humor 
was  not  sweetened  by  noticing  evidences  of  tears  on  Mrs. 
Belcher's  face.  The  breakfast  was  badly  cooked,  and  he  rose 
from  it  exasperated.  There  was  no  remedy  but  to  go  out  and 
call  upon  Mrs.  Dillingham.  He  took  an  umbrella,  and,  telling 
his  wife  that  he  was  going  out  on  business,  he  slammed  tha 
door  behind  him  and  went  down  the  steps. 

As  he  reached  the  street,  he  saw  a  boy  scudding  along  un 
der  an  umbrella,  with  a  package  under  his  arm.  Taking  him 
for  a  newsboy,  he  called :  "  Here,  boy !  Give  me  some 
papers."  The  lad  had  so  shielded  his  face  from  the  rain  and 
the  house  that  he  had  not  seen  Mr.  Belcher ;  and  when  he 
looked  up  he  turned  pale,  and  simply  said  :  "  I'm  not  a  news 
boy;"  and  then  he  ran  away  as  if  he  were  frightened. 

There  was  something  in  the  look  that  arrested  Mr.  Belcher's 
attention.  He  was  sure  he  had  seen  the  lad  before,  but  where, 
he  could  not  remember.  The  face  haunted  him — haunted 
him  for  hours,  even  when  in  the  cheerful  presence  of  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  with  whom  he  spent  a  long  and  delightful  hour.  She 
was  rosy,  and  sweet,  and  sympathetic  in  her  morning  wrapper 
— more  charming,  indeed,  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  in  evening 
dress.  She  inquired  for  Mrs.  Belcher  and  the  children,  and 
heard  with  great  good  humor  his  account  of  his  first  collision 
with  his  New  York  servants.  When  he  went  out  from  her 
inspiring  and  gracious  presence  he  found  his  self-complacency 
restored.  He  had  simply  been  hungry  for  her ;  so  his  break 
fast  was  complete.  He  went  back  to  his  house  with  a  mingled 


zEVENOAKS.  181 

feeling  of  jollity  and  guilt,  but  the  moment  he  was  with  his 
family  the  face  of  the  boy  returned.  Where  had  he  seen 
him  ?  Why  did  the  face  give  him  uneasiness  ?  Why  did  he 
permit  himself  to  be  puzzled  by  it?  No  reasoning,  no  diver, 
sion  could  drive  it  from  his  mind.  Wherever  he  turned 
during  the  long  day  and  evening  that  white,  scared  face  ob 
traded  itself  upon  him.  He  had  noticed,  as  the  lad  lifted 
his  umbrella,  that  he  carried  a  package  of  books  under  his 
arm,  and  naturally  concluded  that,  belated  by  the  rain,  he 
was  on  his  way  to  school.  He  determined,  therefore,  to 
watch  him  on  the  following  morning,  his  own  eyes  reinforced 
by  those  of  his  oldest  boy. 

The  dark  day  passed  away  at  last,  and  things  were  brought 
into  more  homelike  order  by  the  wife  of  the  house,  so  that 
the  evening  was  cozy  and  comfortable ;  and  when  the  street 
lamps  were  lighted  again  and  the  stars  came  out,  and  the 
north  wind  sounded  its  trumpet  along  the  avenue,  the  spirits 
of  the  family  rose  to  the  influence. 

On  the  following  morning,  as  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his 
breakfast,  he,  with  his  boy,  took  a  position  at  one  of  the  win 
dows,  to  watch  for  the  lad  whose  face  had  so  impressed  and 
puzzled  him.  On  the  other  side  of  the  avenue  a  tall  man 
came  out,  with  a  green  bag  under  his  arm,  stepped  into  a  pass 
ing  stage,  and  rolled  away.  Ten  minutes  later  two  ladr 
emerged  with  their  books  slung  over  their  shoulders,  and 
crossed  toward  them. 

"That's  the  boy— the  one   on    the    left,"  said  Mr.   Bel 
cher.     At   the   same  moment   the   lad  looked  up,  and   ap 
parently  saw  the  two  faces  watching  him,  for  he  quickened 
his  pace. 

"That's  Harry  Benedict,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Belcher's  son 
and  heir.  The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when 
Mr.  Belcher  started  from  his  chair,  ran  down-stairs  with  all 
the  speed  possible  within  the  range  of  safety,  and  intercepted 
the  lads  at  a  side  door,  which  opened  upon  the  street  along 
which  they  were  running. 


182  SEVENOAKS. 

"Stop,  Harry,  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the  proprie* 
tor,  sharply. 

Harry  stopped,  as  if  frozen  to  the  spot  in  mortal  terror. 

"  Come  along."  said  Thede  Balfour,  tugging  at  his  hand, 
"  you'll  be  late  at  school." 

Poor  Harry  could  no  more  have  walked  than  he  could  have 
flown.  Mr.  Belcher  saw  the  impression  he  had  made  upon 
him,  and  became  soft  and  insinuating  in  his  manner. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Belcher.  "  Come 
into  the  house,  and  see  the  children.  They  all  remember 
you,  and  they  are  all  homesick.  They'll  be  glad  to  look  at 
anything  from  Sevenoaks." 

Harry  was  not  reassured :  he  was  only  more  intensely 
frightened.  A  giant,  endeavoring  to  entice  him  into  his  cave 
in  the  woods,  would  not  have  terrified  him  more.  At  length 
he  found  his  tongue  sufficiently  to  say  that  he  was  going  to 
school,  and  could  not  go  in. 

It  was  easy  for  Mr.  Belcher  to  take  his  hand,  limp  and 
trembling  with  fear,  and  under  the  guise  of  friendliness  to  lead 
him  up  the  steps,  and  take  him  to  his  room.  Thede  watched 
them  until  they  disappeared,  and  then  ran  back  to  his  home, 
and  reported  what  had  taken  place.  Mrs.  Balfour  was  alone, 
and  could  do  nothing.  She  did  not  believe  that  Mr.  Belcher 
would  dare  to  treat  the  lad  foully,  with  the  consciousness  that 
his  disappearance  within  his  house  had  been  observed,  and 
wisely  determined  to  do  nothing  but  sit  down  at  her  window 
and  watch  the  house. 

Placing  Harry  in  a  chair,  Mr.  Belcher  sat  down  opposite 
to  him,  and  said : 

"  My  boy,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  I've  wanted  to  know 
about  you  more  than  any  boy  in  the  world.  I  suppose  you've 
been  told  that  I  am  a  very  bad  man,  but  I'll  prove  to  you  that 
I'm  not.  There,  put  that  ten-dollar  gold  piece  in  your  pocket. 
That's  what  they  call  an  eagle,  and  I  hope  you'll  have  a  great 
many  like  it  when  you  grow  up." 

The  lad  hid  his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  shook  his  head 


SEVENOAKS.  183 

*'  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  won't  take  it !"  said  the 
proprietor  in  a  wheedling  tone. 

The  boy  kept  his  hands  behind  him,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  not  to  blame  for  disliking  me  ; 
and  now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all  about  your  getting  away 
from  the  poor-house,  and  who  helped  you  out,  and  where 
your  poor,  dear  father  is,  and  all  about  it.  Come,  now,  you 
don't  know  how  much  we  looked  for  you,  and  how  we  all 
gave  you  up  for  lost.  You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  it  is 
to  see  you  again,  and  to  know  that  you  didn't  die  in  the 
woods." 

The  boy  simply  shook  his  head. 

"  Do  you  know  who  Mr.  Belcher  is?  Do  you  know  he  is 
used  to  having  people  mind  him  ?  Do  you  know  that  you're 
here  in  my  house,  and  that  you  must  mind  me?  Do  you 
know  what  I  do  to  little  boys  when  they  disobey  me  ?  Now, 
I  want  you  to  answer  my  questions,  and  do  it  straight.  Ly 
ing  won't  go  down  with  me.  Who  helped  you  and  your 
father  to  get  out  of  the  poor-house?" 

Matters  had  proceeded  to  a  desperate  pass  with  the  lad. 
He  had  thought  very  fast,  and  he  had  determined  that  no 
bribe  and  no  threat  should  extort  a  word  of  information  from 
him.  His  cheeks  grew  hot  and  flushed,  his  eyes  burned,  and 
he  straightened  himself  in  his  chair  as  if  he  expected  death 
or  torture,  and  was  prepared  to  meet  either,  as  he  replied  : 

"I  won't  tell  you." 

"  Is  your  father  alive?  Tell  me,  you  dirty  little  whelp?  Don't 
say  that  you  won't  do  what  I  bid  you  to  do  again.  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  choke  you.  Tell  me — is  your  father  alive?" 

"  I  won't  tell  you,  if  you  kill  me." 

The  wheedling  had  failed ;  the  threatening  had  failed. 
Then  Mr.  Belcher  assumed  the  manner  of  a  man  whose 
motives  had  been  misconstrued,  and  who  wished  for  informa 
tion  that  he  might  do  a  kind  act  to  the  lad's  father. 

"I  should  really  like  to  help  your  father,  and  if  he  is  poor, 
money  would  do  himagreat  deal  of  good.  And  here  is  the  little 


184  SEVENOARS. 

boy  who  does  not  love  his  father  well  enough  to  get  money 
for  him,  when  he  can  have  it  and  welcome  !  The  little  boy 
is  taken  care  of.  He  has  plenty  to  eat,  and  good  clothes  to 
wear,  and  lives  in  a  fine  house,  but  his  poor  father  can  take 
care  of  himself.  I  think  such  a  boy  as  that  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself.  I  think  he  ought  to  kneel  down  and 
say  his  prayers.  If  I  had  a  boy  who  could  do  that,  I  should 
be  sorry  that  he'd  ever  been  born." 

Harry  was  proof  against  this  mode  of  approach  also,  and 
was  relieved,  because  he  saw  that  Mr.  Belcher  was  baffled. 
His  instincts  were  quick,  and  they  told  him  that  he  was  the 
victor.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Belcher  was  getting  hot.  He 
had  closed  the  door  of  his  room,  while  a  huge  coal  fire  was 
burning  in  the  grate.  He  rose  and  opened  the  door.  Harry 
watched  the  movement,  and  descried  the  grand  staircase 
beyond  his  persecutor,  as  the  door  swung  back.  He  had 
looked  into  the  house  while  passing,  during  the  previous  week, 
and  knew  the  relations  of  the  staircase  to  the  entrance  on  the 
avenue.  His  determination  was  instantaneously  made,  and 
Mr.  Belcher  was  conscious  of  a  swift  figure  that  passed  under 
his  arm,  and  was  half  down  the  staircase  before  he  could 
move  or  say  a  word.  Before  he  cried  "stop  him  !"  Harry's 
hand  was  on  the  fastening  of  the  door,  and  when  he  reached 
the  door,  the  boy  was  half  across  the  street. 

He  had  calculated  on  smoothing  over  the  rough  places  of 
the  interview,  and  preparing  a  better  report  of  the  visit  of 
the  lad's  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  avenue,  but  the 
matter  had  literally  slipped  through  his  fingers.  He  closed 
the  door  after  the  retreating  boy,  and  went  back  to  his  room 
without  deigning  to  answer  the  inquiries  that  were  excited  by 
his  loud  command  to  "stop  him." 

Sitting  down,  and  taking  to  himself  his  usual  solace,  and 

smoking  furiously  for  a  while,  he  said:  "D n!"  Inta 

this  one  favorite  and  familiar  expletive  he  poured  his  anger, 
his  vexation,  and  his  fear.  He  believed  at  the  moment  that 
the  inventor  was  alive.  He  believed  that  if  he  had  been 


SEVENOAKS.  185 

dead  his  boy  would,  in  some  way,  have  revealed  the  fact. 
Was  he  still  insane  ?  Had  he  powerful  friends  ?  It  certainly 
appeared  so.  Otherwise,  how  could  the  lad  be  where  he  had 
discovered  him?  Was  it  rational  to  suppose  that  he  was  far 
from  his  father  ?  Was  it  rational  to  suppose  that  the  lad's 
friends  were  not  equally  the  friends  of  the  inventor  ?  HovT 
could  he  know  that  Robert  Belcher  himself  had  not  unwit 
tingly  come  to  the  precise  locality  where  he  would  be  under 
constant  surveillance  ?  How  could  he  know  that  a  deeply  laid 
plot  was  not  already  at  work  to  undermine  and  circumvent  him  ? 
The  lad's  reticence,  determined  and  desperate,  showed  that  he 
knew  the  relations  that  existed  between  his  father  and  the  pro 
prietor,  and  seemed  to  show  that  he  had  acted  under  orders. 

Something  must  be  done  to  ascertain  the  residence  of 
Paul  Benedict,  if  still  alive,  or  to  assure  him  of  his  death, 
if  it  had  occurred.  Something  must  be  done  to  secure  the 
property  which  he  was  rapidly  accumulating.  Already  for 
eign  Governments  were  considering  the  advantages  of  the 
Belcher  rifle,  as  an  arm  for  the  military  service,  and  negotia 
tions  were  pending  with  more  than  one  of  them.  Already 
his  own  Government,  then  in  the  first  years  of  its  great  civil 
war,  ha,d  experimented  with  it,  with  the  most  favorabl* 
result?.  The  business  was  never  so  promising  as  it  then  ap 
peared,  yet  it  never  had  appeared  so  insecure. 

In  the  midst  of  his  reflections,  none  of  which  were  pleasant, 
and  in  a  sort  of  undefined  dread  of  the  consequences  of  his 
indiscretions  in  connection  with  Harry  Benedict,  the  bell 
rang,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Talbot  were  announced.  The  factor 
and  his  gracious  lady  were  in  fine  spirits,  and  full  of  their 
congratulations  over  the  safe  removal  of  the  family  to  their 
splendid  mansion.  Mrs.  Talbot  was  sure  that  Mrs.  Belcher 
must  feel  that  all  the  wishes  of  her  heart  were  gratified.  There 
was  really  nothing  like  the  magnificence  of  the  mansion. 
Mrs.  Belcher  could  only  say  that  it  was  all  very  fine,  but  Mr. 
Belcher,  finding  himself  an  object  of  envy,  took  great  pride 
m  showing  his  visitors  about  the  house. 


1 86  SEVEN  OAKS. 

Mrs.  Talbot,  who  in  some  way  had  ascertained  that  Mrs. 
Dillingham  had  superintended  the  arrangement  of  the  house, 
said,  in  an  aside  to  Mrs.  Belcher  :  "It  must  have  been  a  little 
lonely  to  come  here  and  find  no  one  to  receive  you — no  friend, 
I  mean." 

"Mrs.  Dillingham  was  here,"  remarked  Mrs.  Belcher, 
quietly. 

"  But  she  was  no  friend  of  yours." 

"  No;  Mr.  Belcher  had  met  her." 

"  How  strange  I    How  very  strange !  " 

"  Do  you  know  her  well  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid  I  do  ;  but  now,  really,  I  hope  you  won't  per 
diit  yourself  to  be  prejudiced  against  her.      I  suppose  sh 
means  well,  but  she  certainly  does  the  most  unheard-of  things. 
She's  a  restless  creature — not  quite  right,  you  know,  but  she 
has  been  immensely  flattered.     She's  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
and  I  don't  join  the  hue  and  cry  against  her  at  all,  but  she 
does  such  imprudent  things !     What  did  she  say  to  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Belcher  detected  the  spice  of  pique  and  jealousy  in 
this  charitable  speech,  and  said  very  little  in  response — noth 
ing  that  a  mischief-maker  could  torture  into  an  offense. 

Having  worked  her  private  pump  until  the  well  whose  wa 
ters  she  sought  refused  to  give  up  its  treasures,  Mrs.  Talbot 
declared  she  would  no  longer  embarrass  the  new  house-keeping 
by  her  presence.  She  had  only  called  to  bid  Mrs.  Belcher 
welcome,  and  to  assure  her  that  if  she  had  no  friends  in  the 
city,  there  were  hundreds  of  hospitable  hearts  that  were  ready 
to  greet  her.  Then  she  and  her  husband  went  out,  waved 
their  adieus  from  their  snug  little  coup£,  and  drove  away. 

The  call  had  diverted  Mr.  Belcher  from  his  somber  thoughts, 
and  he  summoned  his  carriage,  and  drove  down  town,  where 
he  spent  his  day  in  securing  the  revolution  in  his  domestic 
service,  already  alluded  to,  in  talking  business  with  his  factor, 
and  in  making  acquaintances  on  'Change. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  in  the  middle  of  this  thing,  one  of  those 
days/'  said  he  to  Talbot  as  they  strolled  back  to  the  counting' 


SEVENOAKS.  187 

room  of  the  latter,  after  a  long  walk  among  the  brokers  and 
bankers  of  Wall  street.  "  If  anybody  supposes  that  I've  come 
here  to  lie  still,  they  don't  know  me.  They'll  wake  up  somt 
fine  morning  and  find  a  new  hand  at  the  bellows." 

Twilight  found  him  at  home  again,  where  he  had  the  su 
preme  pleasure  of  turning  his  very  independent  servants  out 
of  his  house  into  the  street,  and  installing  a  set  who  knew, 
from  the  beginning,  the  kind  of  man  they  had  to  deal  with, 
and  conducted  themselves  accordingly. 

While  enjoying  his  first  cigar  after  dinner,  a  note  was 
handed  to  him,  which  he  opened  and  read.  It  was  dated  at 
the  house  across  the  avenue.  He  had  expected  and  dreaded 
it,  but  he  did  not  shrink  like  a  coward  from  its  persual.  It 
read  thus : 

"MR.  ROBERT  BELCHER:  I  have  been  informed  of  the 
shameful  manner  in  which  you  treated  a  member  of  my  family 
this  morning — Master  Harry  Benedict.  The  bullying  of  a 
small  boy  is  not  accounted  a  dignified  business  for  a  man  in 
the  city  which  I  learn  you  have  chosen  for  your  home,  how 
ever  it  may  be  regarded  in  the  little  town  from  which  you 
came.  I  do  not  propose  to  tolerate  such  conduct  toward  any 
dependent  of  mine.  I  do  not  ask  for  your  apology,  for  the 
explanation  was  in  my  hands  before  the  outrage  was  com 
mitted.  I  perfectly  understand  your  relations  to  the  lad,  and 
trust  that  the  time  will  come  when  the  law  will  define  them, 
so  that  the  public  will  also  understand  them.  Meantime,  you 
will  consult  your  own  safety  by  letting  him  alone,  and  never 
presuming  to  repeat  the  scene  of  this  morning. 

"Yours,         JAMES  BALFOUR, 

"  Counselor-at-Law. " 

"  Hum  !  ha  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Belcher,  compressing  his  lips, 
and  spitefully  tearing  the  letter  into  small  strips  and  throwing 
them  into  the  fire.  "  Thank  you,  kind  sir ;  I  owe  you  one," 
said  he,  rising,  and  walking  his  room.  "  That  doesn't  look 
very  much  as  if  Paul  Benedict  were  alive.  He's  a  counselor- 
at-law,  he  is ;  and  he  has  inveigled  a  boy  into  his  keeping, 


188  SEVENOAKS. 

who,  he  supposes,  has  a  claim  on  me ;  and  he  proposes  ta 
make  some  money  out  of  it.  Sharp  game !  " 

Mr.  Belcher  was  interrupted  in  his  reflections  and  his  solilo 
quy  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant,  with  the  information  thai 
there  was  a  man  at  the  door  who  wished  to  see  him. 

"Show  him  up." 

The  servant  hesitated,  and  finally  said  :  "  He  doesn't  smell 
very  well,  sir. ' ' 

"  What  does  he  smell  of  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Belcher,  laughing. 

"Rum,  sir,  and  several  things." 

"  Send  him  away,  then." 

"  I  tried  to,  sir,  but  he  says  he  knows  you,  and  wants  to 
see  you  on  particular  business. ' ' 

"  Take  him  into  the  basement,  and  tell  him  I'll  be  dowu 
soon." 

Mr.  Belcher  exhausted  his  cigar,  tossed  the  stump  into  the 
fire,  and,  muttering  to  himself,  "  Who  the  devil !"  went  dowl 
to  meet  his  caller. 

As  he  entered  a  sort  of  lobby  in  the  basement  that  was  used 
as  a  servants'  parlor,  his  visitor  rose,  and  stood  with  great 
shame-facedness  before  him.  He  did  not  extend  his  hand, 
but  stood  still,  in  his  seedy  clothes  and  his  coat  buttoned  tc 
his  chin,  to  hide  his  lack  of  a  shirt.  The  blue  look  of  the 
cold  street  had  changed  to  a  hot  purple  under  the  influence 
of  a  softer  atmosphere ;  and  over  all  stood  the  wreck  of  a  good 
face,  and  a  head  still  grand  in  its  outline. 

"Well,  you  look  as  if  you  were  waiting  to  be  damned," 
said  Mr.  Belcher,  roughly. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  responded  the  man  solemnly. 

"Very  well;  consider  the  business  done,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  and  clear  out." 

"I  am  the  most  miserable  of  men,  Mr.  Belcher." 

"I  believe  you;  and  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  your 
appearance  corroborates  your  statement." 

"And  you  don't  recognize  me?  Is  it  possible?"  And 
the  maudlin  tears  came  into  the  man's  rheumy  eyes  and 


SEVEN  OAKS.  189 

rolled  down  his  cheeks.    "  You  knew  me  in  better  days,  sir ;" 
and  his  voice  trembled  with  weak  emotion. 

"  No ;  I  never  saw  you  before.  That  game  won't  work,  and 
now  be  off." 

"And  you  don't  remember  Yates? — Sam  Yates — and  the 
happy  days  we  spent  together  in  childhood?"  And  the  man 
rvept  again,  and  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  coat-sleeve. 

"Do  you  pretend  to  say  that  you  are  Sam  Yates,  the  lawyer  ?" 

"The  same,  at  your  service." 

"What  brought  you  to  this?" 

"Drink,  and  bad  company,  sir.' 

"And  you  want  money?" 

"Yes!"  exclaimed  the  man,  with  a  hiss  as  fierce  as  if  he 
were  a  serpent. 

"  Do  you  want  to  earn  money?" 

"Anything  to  get  it." 

"Anything  to  get  drink,  I  suppose.     You  said  'anything 
Did  you  mean  that?" 

The  man  knew  Robert  Belcher,  and  he  knew  that  the  last 
question  had  a  great  deal  more  in  it  than  would  appear  to  the 
ordinary  listener. 

"Lift  me  out  of  the  gutter,"  said  he,  "and  keep  me  out, 
*nd — command  me." 

"  I  have  a  little  business  on  hand,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "that 
you  can  do,  provided  you  will  let  your  drink  alone — a  busi 
ness  that  I  am  willing  to  pay  for.  Do  you  remember  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Benedict — a  shiftless,  ingenious  dog,  who 
once  lived  in  Sevenoaks?" 

"Very  well." 

"  Should  you  know  him  again,  were  you  to  see  him?" 

'I  think  I  should." 

"Do  you  know  you  should?  I  don't  want  any  thinking 
about  it.  Could  you  swear  to  him  ?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  think  it  would  trouble  me  to  swear  to  him." 

"  If  I  were  to  show  you  some  of  his  handwriting,  do  you 
suppose  that  would  help  you  any?" 


I9o  SEVENOAKS. 

"It— might." 

"I  don't  want  any  'mights.'    Do  you  know  it  would?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  want  to  sell  yourself — body,  soul,  brains,  legal 
knowledge,  everything — for  money?" 

"  I've  sold  myself  already  at  a  smaller  price,  and  I  don't 
mind  withdrawing  from  the  contract  for  a  better. ' ' 

Mr.  Belcher  summoned  a  servant,  and  ordered  something 
to  eat  for  his  visitor.  While  the  man  eagerly  devoured  his 
food,  and  washed  it  down  with  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Belcher  went 
to  his  room,  and  wrote  an  order  on  his  tailor  for  a  suit  of 
clothes,  and  a  complete  respectable  outfit  for  the  legal  "  dead 
beat  "  who  was  feasting  himself  below.  When  he  descended, 
he  handed  him  the  paper,  and  gave  him  money  for  a  bath  and 
a  night's  lodging. 

"  To-morrow  morning  I  want  you  to  come  here  clean,  and 
dressed  in  the  clothes  that  this  paper  will  give  you.  If  you 
drink  one  drop  before  that  time  I  will  strip  the  clothes  from 
your  back.  Come  to  this  room  and  get  a  decent  breakfast. 
Remember  that  you  can't  fool  me,  and  that  I'll  have  none  of 
your  nonsense.  If  you  are  to  serve  me,  and  get  any  money 
out  of  it,  you  must  keep  sober." 

"  I  can  keep  sober — for  a  while — any  way,"  said  the  man, 
hesitatingly  and  half  despairingly. 

"Very  well,  now  be  off;  and  mind,  if  I  ever  hear  a  word 
of  this,  or  any  of  our  dealings  outside,  I'll  thrash  you  as  I 
would  a  dog.  If  you  are  true  to  me  I  can  be  of  use  to  you. 
If  you  are  not,  I  will  kick  you  into  the  street." 

The  man  tottered  to  his  feet,  and  said:  "  I  am  ashamed  to 
say  that  you  may  command  me.  I  should  have  scorned  it 
once,  but  my  chance  is  gone,  and  I  could  be  loyal  to  the  devil 
himself — for  a  consideration." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Belcher  was  informed  that  Yates 
had  breakfasted,  and  was  awaiting  orders.  He  descended  to 
the  basement,  and  stood  confronted  with  a  respectable-looking 
gentleman,  who  greeted  him  in  a  courtly  way,  yet  with  a 


SEVENOAKS.  191 

deprecating  look  in  his  eyes,  which  said,  as  plainly  as  words 
could  express;  "don't  humiliate  me  any  more  than  you  can 
help!  Use  me,  but  spare  the  little  pride  I  have,  if  you  can." 

The  deprecatory  look  was  lost  upon  Mr.  Belcher.  "  Where 
did  you  get  your  clothes?"  he  inquired.  "Come,  now; 
give  me  the  name  of  your  tailor.  I'm  green  in  the  city,  you 
see." 

The  man  tried  to  smile,  but  the  effort  was  a  failure. 

"What  did  you  take  for  a  night-cap  last  night,  eh?" 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,  sir,  that  I  have  not  taken 
a  drop  since  I  saw  you. ' ' 

"  Word  of  honor  !  ha  !  ha !  ha  !  Do  you  suppose  I  want 
your  word  of  honor?  Do  you  suppose  I  want  a  man  of 
honor,  anyway  ?  If  you  have  come  here  to  talk  about  honor, 
you  are  no  man  for  me.  That's  a  sort  of  nonsense  that  I 
have  no  use  for. ' ' 

"Very  well;  my  word  of  dishonor,"  responded  the  man, 
desperately. 

"Now  you  talk.  There's  no  use  in  such  a  man  as  you 
putting  on  airs,  and  forgetting  that  he  wears  my  clothes  and 
fills  himself  at  my  table." 

"I  do  not  forget  it,  sir,  and  I  see  that  I  am  not  likely  to." 

"  Not  while  you  do  business  with  me ;  and  now,  sit  dowi 
and  hear  me.  The  first  thing  you  are  to  do  is  to  ascertair 
whether  Paul  Benedict  is  dead.  It  isn't  necessary  that  you 
should  know  my  reasons.  You  are  to  search  every  insane 
hospital,  public  and  private,  in  the  city,  and  every  alms- 
house.  Put  on  your  big  airs  and  play  philanthropist.  Find 
all  the  records  of  the  past  year — the  death  records  of  the  city 
— everything  that  will  help  to  determine  that  the  man  is  dead, 
as  I  believe  he  is.  This  will  give  you  all  you  want  to  do  for 
the  present.  The  man's  son  is  in  the  city,  and  the  boy  and 
the  man  left  the  Sevenoaks  poor-house  together.  If  the  man 
is  alive,  he  is  likely  to  be  near  him.  If  he  is  dead  he  proba 
bly  died  near  him.  Find  out,  too,  if  you  can,  when  his  boy 
came  to  live  at  Balfour's  over  the  way,  and  where  he  camo 


192  SEVENOAKS. 

from.  You  may  stumble  upon  what  I  want  very  soon,  or  it 
may  take  you  all  winter.  If  you  should  fail  then,  I  shall  want 
you  to  take  the  road  from  here  to  Sevenoaks,  and  even  to 
Number  Nine,  looking  into  all  the  alms-houses  on  the  way. 
The  great  point  is  to  find  out  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead,  and 
to  know,  if  he  is  dead,  where,  and  exactly  when,  he  died.  In 
the  meantime,  come  to  me  every  week  with  a  written  report 
of  what  you  have  done,  and  get  your  pay.  Come  always 
after  dark,  so  that  none  of  Balfour's  people  can  see  you. 
Begin  the  business,  and  carry  it  on  in  your  own  way.  You 
are  old  and  sharp  enough  not  to  need  any  aid  from  me,  and 
now  be  off." 

The  man  took  a  roll  of  bills  that  Mr.  Belcher  handed  him, 
and  walked  out  of  the  door  without  a  word.  As  he  rose  to 
the  sidewalk,  Mr.  Balfour  came  out  of  the  door  opposite  to 
him,  with  the  evident  intention  of  taking  a  passing  stage.  He 
nodded  to  Yates,  whom  he  had  not  only  known  in  other  days, 
but  had  many  times  befriended,  and  the  latter  sneaked  off 
down  the  street,  while  he,  standing  for  a  moment  as  if  puz 
zled,  turned,  and  with  his  latch-key  re-entered  his  house. 
Yates  saw  the  movement,  and  knew  exactly  what  it  meant. 
He  only  hoped  that  Mr.  Belcher  had  not  seen  it,  as,  indeed, 
he  had  not,  having  been  at  the  moment  on  his  way  upstairs. 

Yates  knew  that,  with  his  good  clothes  on,  the  keen  lawyer 
would  give  but  one  interpretation  to  the  change,  and  that  any 
hope  or  direct  plan  he  might  have  with  regard  to  ascertaining 
when  the  boy  was  received  into  the  family,  and  where  he 
came  from,  was  nugatory.  He  would  not  tell  Mr.  Belchei 
this. 

Mr.  Balfour  called  his  wife  to  the  window,  pointed  out  the 
retreating  form  of  Yates,  gave  utterance  to  his  suspicions, 
and  placed  her  upon  her  guard.  Then  he  went  to  his  office, 
as  well  satisfied  that  there  was  a  mischievous  scheme  on  foot 
as  if  he  had  overheard  the  conversation  between  Mr.  Belcher 
and  the  man  who  had  consented  to  be  his  tool. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WHICH  TELLS  OF  A  GREAT    PUBLIC    MEETING   IN    SEVENOAKS,  THE 
BURNING  IN  EFFIGY  OF  MR.  BELCHER,  AND  THAT  GENTLE 
MAN'S  INTERVIEW  WITH  A  REPORTER. 

MR.  BALFOUR,  in  his  yearly  journeys  through  Sevenoaks, 
had  made  several  acquaintances  among  the  citizens,  and  had 
impressed  them  as  a  man  of  ability  and  integrity ;  and,  as  he 
was  the  only  New  York  lawyer  of  their  acquaintance,  they 
very  naturally  turned  to  him  for  information  and  advice. 
Without  consulting  each  other,  or  informing  each  other  of 
what  they  had  done,  at  least  half  a  dozen  wrote  to  him  the 
moment  Mr.  Belcher  was  out  of  the  village,  seeking  informa 
tion  concerning  the  Continental  Petroleum  Company.  They 
told  him  frankly  about  the  enormous  investments  that  they 
and  their  neighbors  had  made,  and  of  their  fears  concerning 
the  results.  With  a  friendly  feeling  toward  the  people,  he 
undertook,  as  far  as  possible,  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  the  mat 
ter,  and  sent  a  man  to  look  up  the  property,  and  to  find  the 
men  who  nominally  composed  the  Company. 

After  a  month  had  passed  away  and  no  dividend  was  an 
nounced,  the  people  began  to  talk  more  freely  among  them 
selves.  They  had  hoped  against  hope,  and  fought  their 
suspicions  until  they  were  tired,  and  then  they  sought  in 
sympathy  to  assuage  the  pangs  of  their  losses  and  disappoint 
ments. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  two  months  after  Mr.  Belcher's 
departure  that  a  letter  was  received  at  Sevenoaks  from  Mr. 
Balfour,  giving  a  history  of  the  Company,  which  confirmed 
their  worst  fears.  This  history  is  already  in  the  possession  of 

9  193 


I94  SEVEN  OAKS. 

the  reader,  but  to  that  which  has  been  detailed  was  added  the 
information  that,  practically,  the  operations  of  the  Company 
had  been  discontinued,  and  the  men  who  formed  it  were  scat 
tered.  Nothing  had  ever  been  earned,  and  the  dividends 
which  had  been  disbursed  were  taken  out  of  the  pockets  of 
the  principals,  from  moneys  which  they  had  received  for  stock. 
Mr.  Belcher  had  absorbed  half  that  had  been  received,  at  no 
cost  to  himself  whatever,  and  had  added  the  grand  total  to 
his  already  bulky  fortune.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  gross  swin 
dle,  and  was,  from  the  first,  intended  to  be  such ;  but  it  was 
under  the  forms  of  law,  and  it  was  doubtful  whether  a  penny 
could  ever  be  recovered. 

Then,  of  course,  the  citizens  held  a  public  meeting — the 
great  panacea  for  all  the  ills  of  village  life  in  America.  Noth 
ing  but  a  set  of  more  or  less  impassioned  speeches  and  a  string 
of  resolutions  could  express  the  indignation  of  Sevenoaks. 
A  notice  was  posted  for  several  days,  inviting  all  the  resident 
stockholders  in  the  Continental  to  meet  in  council,  to  see 
what  was  to  be  done  for  the  security  of  their  interests. 

The  little  town-hall  was  full,  and,  scattered  among  the 
boisterous  throng  of  men,  were  the  pitiful  faces  and  figures 
of  poor  women  who  had  committed  their  little  all  to  the  grasp 
of  the  great  scoundrel  who  had  so  recently  despoiled  and 
deserted  them. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Snow  was  there,  as  became  the  pastor  of  a 
flock  in  which  the  wolf  had  made  its  ravages,  and  the  meeting 
was  opened  with  prayer,  according  to  the  usual  custom. 
Considering  the  mood  and  temper  of  the  people,  a  prayer  for 
the  spirit  of  forgiveness  and  fortitude  would  not  have  been 
out  of  place,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  it  was  wholly  a  matter 
of  form.  It  is  noticeable  that  at  political  conventions,  on  the 
eve  of  conflicts  in  which  personal  ambition  and  party  chica 
nery  play  prominent  parts ;  on  the  inauguration  of  great 
business  enterprises  in  which  local  interests  meet  in  the  deter 
mined  strifes  of  selfishness,  and  at  a  thousand  gatherings  whose 
objects  leave  God  forgotten  and  right  and  justice  out  of  con- 


SEVENOAKS.  195 

sideration,  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty  is  invoked,  while  men 
who  are  about  to  rend  each  other's  reputations,  and  strive, 
without  conscience,  for  personal  and  party  masteries,  bow 
reverent  heads  and  mumble  impatient  "  Amens." 

But  the  people  of  Sevenoaks  wanted  their  money  back,  and 
that,  certainly,  was  worth  praying  for.  They  wanted,  also, 
to  find  some  way  to  wreak  their  indignation  upon  Robert 
Belcher ;  and  the  very  men  who  bowed  in  prayer  after  reach 
ing  the  hall  walked  under  an  effigy  of  that  person  on  their 
way  thither,  hung  by  the  neck  and  dangling  from  a  tree,  and 
had  rare  laughter  and  gratification  in  the  repulsive  vision. 
They  were  angry,  they  were  indignant,  they  were  exasperated, 
and  the  more  so  because  they  were  more  than  half  convinced 
of  their  impotence,  while  wholly  conscious  that  they  had  been 
decoyed  to  their  destruction,  befooled  and  overreached  by 
one  who  knew  how  to  appeal  to  a  greed  which  his  own  ill- 
won  successes  and  prosperities  had  engendered  in  them. 

After  the  prayer,  the  discussion  began.  Men  rose,  trying 
their  best  to  achieve  self-control,  and  to  speak  judiciously  and 
judicially,  but  they  were  hurled,  one  after  another,  into  the 
vortex  of  indignation,  and  cheer  upon  cheer  shook  the  hall 
as  they  gave  vent  to  the  real  feeling  that  was  uppermost  in 
their  hearts. 

After  the  feeling  of  the  meeting  had  somewhat  expended 
itself,  Mr.  Snow  rose  to  speak.  In  the  absence  of  the  great 
shadow  under  which  he  had  walked  during  all  his  pastorate, 
and  under  the  blighting  influence  of  which  his  manhood 
had  shriveled,  he  was  once  more  independent.  The  sorrows 
and  misfortunes  of  his  people  had  greatly  moved  him.  A 
sense  of  his  long  humiliation  shamed  him.  He  was  poor,  but 
he  was  once  more  his  own ;  and  he  owed  a  duty  to  the  mad 
multitude  around  him  which  he  was  bound  to  discharge. 
"My  friends,"  said  he,  "I  am  with  you,  for  better  or  for 
worse.  You  kindly  permit  me  to  share  in  your  prosperity, 
and  now,  in  the  day  of  your  trial  and  adversity,  I  will  stand 
by  you.  There  has  gone  out  from  among  us  an  incarnate  evil 


196  SEVENOAKS. 

influence,  a  fact  which  calls  for  our  profound  gratitude.  I 
confess  with  sname  that  I  have  not  only  felt  it,  but  have 
shaped  myself,  though  unconsciously,  to  it.  It  has  vitiated 
our  charities,  corrupted  our  morals,  and  invaded  even  the 
house  of  God.  We  have  worshiped  the  golden  calf.  We 
have  bowed  down  to  Moloch.  We  have  consented  to  live 
under  a  will  that  was  base  and  cruel,  in  all  its  motives  and 
ends.  We  have  been  so  dazzled  by  a  great  worldly  success, 
that  we  have  ceased  to  inquire  into  its  sources.  We  have 
done  daily  obeisance  to  one  who  neither  feared  God  nor  re 
garded  man.  We  have  become  so  pervaded  with  his  spirit, 
so  demoralized  by  his  foul  example,  that  when  he  held  out 
even  a  false  opportunity  to  realize  something  of  his  success, 
we  made  no  inquisition  of  tacts  or  processes,  and  were  willing 
to  share  with  him  in  gains  that  his  whole  history  would  have 
taught  us  were  more  likely  to  be  unfairly  than  fairly  won.  I 
mourn  for  your  losses,  for  you  can  poorly  afford  to  suffer 
them ;  but  to  have  that  man  forever  removed  from  us ;  to  be 
released  from  his  debasing  influence ;  to  be  untrammeled  in 
our  action  and  in  the  development  of  our  resources ;  to  be 
free  men  and  free  women,  and  to  become  content  with  our 
lot  and  with  such  gains  as  we  may  win  in  a  legitimate  way,  is 
worth  all  that  it  has  cost  us.  We  needed  a  severe  lesson,  and 
we  have  had  it.  It  falls  heavily  upon  some  who  are  innocent. 
Let  us,  in  kindness  to  these,  find  a  balm  for  our  own  trials. 
And,  now,  let  us  not  degrade  ourselves  by  hot  words  and  im~ 
potent  resentments.  They  can  do  no  good.  Let  us  be  men 
— Christian  men,  with  detestation  of  the  rascality  from  which 
we  suffer,  but  with  pity  for  the  guilty  man,  who,  sooner  or 
later,  will  certainly  meet  the  punishment  he  so  richly  deserves. 
'Vengeance  is  mine;  I  will  repay,'  saith  the  Lord." 

The  people  of  Sevenoaks  had  never  before  heard  Mr.  Snow 
make  such  a  speech  as  this.  It  was  a  manly  confession,  and 
a  manly  admonition.  His  attenuated  form  was  straight  and 
almost  majestic,  his  pale  face  was  flushed,  his  tones  were  deep 
and  strong,  and  they  saw  that  one  man,  at  least,  breathed 


SEVENOAKS.  197 

more  freely,  now  that  the  evil  genius  of  the  place  was  gone. 
It  was  a  healthful  speech.  It  was  an  appeal  to  their  own  con 
scious  history,  and  to  such  remains  of  manhood  as  they  pos 
sessed,  and  they  were  strengthened  by  it. 

A  series  of  the  most  objurgatory  resolutions  had  been  pre 
pared  for  the  occasion,  yet  the  writer  saw  that  it  would  be 
better  to  keep  them  in  his  pocket.  The  meeting  was  at  a 
stand,  when  little  Dr.  Radcliffe,  who  was  sore  to  his  heart's 
core  with  his  petty  loss,  jumped  up  and  declared  that  he  had 
a  series  of  resolutions  to  offer.  There  was  a  world  of  uncon 
scious  humor  in  his  freak, — unconscious,  because  his  resolu 
tions  were  intended  to  express  his  spite,  not  only  against  Mr. 
Belcher,  but  against  the  villagers,  including  Mr.  Snow.  He 
began  by  reading  in  his  piping  voice  the  first  resolution 
passed  at  the  previous  meeting  which  so  pleasantly  dismissed 
the  proprietor  to  the  commercial  metropolis  of  the  country. 
The  reading  of  this  resolution  was  so  sweet  a  sarcasm  on  the 
proceedings  of  that  occasion,  that  it  was  received  with  peals 
of  laughter  and  deafening  cheers,  and  as  he  went  bitterly  on, 
from  resolution  to  resolution,  raising  his  voice  to  overtop  the 
jargon,  the  scene  became  too  ludicrous  for  description.  The 
resolutions,  which  never  had  any  sincerity  in  them,  were  such 
a  confirmation  of  all  that  Mr.  Snow  had  said,  and  such  a  com 
ment  on  their  own  duplicity  and  moral  debasement,  that  there 
was  nothing  left  for  them  but  to  break  up  and  go  home. 

The  laugh  did  them  good,  and  complemented  the  correc 
tive  which  had  been  administered  to  them  by  the  minister. 
Some  of  them  still  retained  their  anger,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  when  they  emerged  upon  the  street  and  found  Mr.  Bel 
cher's  effigy  standing  upon  the  ground,  surrounded  by  fagots 
ready  to  be  lighted,  they  yelled:  "  Light  him  up,  boys!" 
and  stood  to  witness  the  sham  auto-da-fe  with  a  crowd  of 
village  urchins  dancing  around  it. 

Of  course,  Mr.  Belcher  had  calculated  upon  indignation 
and  anger,  and  rejoiced  in  their  impotence.  He  knew  that 
those  who  had  lost  so  much  would  not  care  to  risk  more  in  a 


198  SEVENOAKS. 

suit  at  law,  and  that  his  property  at  Sevenoaks  was  so  identi 
fied  with  the  life  of  the  town — that  so  many  were  dependent 
upon  its  preservation  for  their  daily  bread — that  they  would 
not  be  fool-hardy  enough  to  burn  it. 

Forty-eight  hours  after  the  public  meeting,  Mr.  Belcher, 
sitting  comfortably  in  his  city  home,  received  from  the  post 
man  a  large  handful  of  letters.  He  looked  them  over,  and 
as  they  were  all  blazoned  with  the  Sevenoaks  post-mark,  he 
selected  that  which  bore  the  handwriting  of  his  agent,  and 
read  it.  The  agent  had  not  dared  to  attend  the  meeting,  but 
he  had  had  his  spies  there,  who  reported  to  him  fully  the  au 
thorship  and  drift  of  all  the  speeches  in  the  hall,  and  the  un 
seemly  proceedings  of  the  street.  Mr.  Belcher  did  not  laugh, 
for  his  vanity  was  wounded.  The  thought  that  a  town  in 
which  he  had  ruled  so  long  had  dared  to  burn  his  effigy  in 
the  open  street  was  a  humiliation;  particularly  so,  as  he  did 
not  see  how  he  could  revenge  himself  upon  the  perpetrators 
of  it  without  compromising  his  own  interests.  He  blurted 
out  his  favorite  expletive,  lighted  a  new  cigar,  walked  his 
room,  and  chafed  like  a  caged  tiger. 

He  was  not  in  haste  to  break  the  other  seals,  but  at  last  he 
sat  down  to  the  remainder  of  his  task,  and  read  a  series  of 
pitiful  personal  appeals  that  would  have  melted  any  heart  but 
his  own.  They  were  from  needy  men  and  women  whom  he 
had  despoiled.  They  were  a  detail  of  suffering  and  disap 
pointment,  and  in  some  cases  they  were  abject  prayers  for  res 
titution.  He  read  them  all,  to  the  last  letter  and  the  last 
word,  and  then  quietly  tore  them  into  strips,  and  threw  them 
into  the  fire. 

His  agent  had  informed  him  of  the  sources  of  the  public 
information  concerning  the  Continental  Company,  and  he 
recognized  James  Balfour  as  an  enemy.  He  had  a  premoni 
tion  that  the  man  was  destined  to  stand  in  his  way,  and  that 
he  was  located  just  where  he  could  overlook  his  operations 
and  his  life.  He  would  not  have  murdered  him,  but  he 
would  have  been  glad  to  hear  that  he  was  dead.  He  wondered 


SEVENOAKS.  199 

whether  he  was  incorruptible,  and  whether  he,  Robert  Bel 
cher,  could  afford  to  buy  him — whether  it  would  not  pay  to 
make  his  acquaintance — whether,  indeed,  the  man  were  not 
endeavoring  to  force  him  to  do  so.  Every  bad  motive  which 
could  exercise  a  man,  he  understood ;  but  he  was  puzzled  in 
endeavoring  to  make  out  what  form  of  selfishness  had  moved 
Mr.  Balfour  to  take  such  an  interest  in  the  people  of  Seven- 
oaks. 

At  last  he  sat  down  at  his  table  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
agent,  simply  ordering  him  to  establish  a  more  thorough 
watch  over  his  property,  and  directing  him  to  visit  all  the 
newspaper  offices  of  the  region,  and  keep  the  reports  of  the 
meeting  and  its  attendant  personal  indignities  from  publica 
tion. 

Then,  with  an  amused  smile  upon  his  broad  face,  he  wrote 
the  following  letter : 

"  To  THE  REVEREND  SOLOMON  SNOW, 

"Dear  Sir:  I  owe  an  apology  to  the  people  of  Sevenoaks 
for  never  adequately  acknowledging  the  handsome  manner  in 
which  they  endeavored  to  assuage  the  pangs  of  parting  on  the 
occasion  of  my  removal.  The  resolutions  passed  at  their 
public  meeting  are  cherished  among  my  choicest  treasures,  and 
the  cheers  of  the  people  as  I  rode  through  their  ranks  on  the 
morning  of  my  departure,  still  ring  in  my  ears  more  delight 
fully  than  any  music  I  ever  heard.  Thank  them,  I  pray  you, 
for  me,  for  their  overwhelming  friendliness.  I  now  have  a 
request  to  make  of  them,  and  I  make  it  the  more  boldly  be 
cause,  during  the  past  ten  years,  I  have  never  been  approached 
by  any  of  them  in  vain  when  they  have  sought  my  benefac 
tions.  The  Continental  Petroleum  Company  is  a  failure,  and 
all  the  stock  I  hold  in  it  is  valueless.  Finding  that  my  ex 
penses  in  the  city  are  very  much  greater  than  in  the  country, 
it  has  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  my  friends  there  would  be 
willing  to  make  up  a  purse  for  my  benefit.  I  assure  you  that 
it  would  be  gratefully  received ;  and  I  apply  to  you  because, 


200  SEVENOAKS. 

from  long  experience,  I  know  that  you  are  accomplished  in 
the  art  of  begging.  Your  graceful  manner  in  accepting  gifts 
from  me  has  given  me  all  the  hints  I  shall  need  in  that  respect, 
so  that  the  transaction  will  not  be  accompanied  by  any  clumsy 
details.  My  butcher's  bill  will  be  due  in  a  few  days,  and  dis 
patch  is  desirable. 

"With  the  most  cordial  compliments  to  Mrs.  Snow,  whom 
I  profoundly  esteem,  and  to  your  accomplished  daughters, 
who  have  so  long  been  spared  to  the  protection  of  the  pater 
nal  roof, 

"  I  am  your  affectionate  parishioner, 

"ROBERT  BELCHER." 

Mr.  Belcher  had  done  wlw  he  considered  a  very  neat  ai«d 
brilliant  thing.  He  sealed  and  directed  the  letter,  rang  his 
bell,  and  ordered  it  posted.  Then  he  sat  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  and  chuckled  over  it.  Then  he  rose  and  paraded  him 
self  before  his  mirror. 

"  When  you  get  ahead  of  Robert  Belcher,  drop  us  a  line. 
Let  it  be  brief  and  to  the  point.  Any  information  thankfully 
received.  Are  you,  sir,  to  be  bothered  by  this  pettifogger  ? 
Are  you  to  sit  tamely  down  and  be  undermined  ?  Is  that 
your  custom?  Then,  sir,  you  are  a  base  coward.  Who  said 
coward  ?  Did  you,  sir  ?  Let  this  right  hand,  which  I  now 
raise  in  air,  and  clench  in  awful  menace,  warn  you  not  to 
repeat  the  damning  accusation.  Sevenoaks  howls,  and  it  is 
well.  Let  every  man  who  stands  in  my  path  take  warning.  \ 
button  my  coat ;  I  raise  my  arms ;  I  straighten  my  form,  an<J 
they  flee  away — flee  like  the  mists  of  the  morning,  and  over 
yonder  mountain-top,  fade  in  the  far  blue  sky.  And  now, 
my  dear  sir,  don't  make  an  ass  of  yourself,  but  sit  down. 
Thank  you,  sir.  I  make  you  my  obeisance.  I  retire." 

Mr.  Belcher's  addresses  to  himself  were  growing  less  fre 
quent  among  the  excitements  of  new  society.  He  had  enough 
to  occupy  his  mind  without  them,  and  found  sufficient  compe 
tition  in  the  matter  of  dress  to  modify  in  some  degree  his  van« 


SEVENOAKS.  201 

ity  of  person ;  but  the  present  occasion  was  a  stimulating  one, 
and  one  whose  excitements  he  could  not  share  with  another. 

His  missive  went  to  its  destination,  and  performed  a  tho 
roughly  healthful  work,  because  it  destroyed  all  hope  of  any 
relief  from  his  hands,  and  betrayed  the  cruel  contempt  with 
which  he  regarded  his  old  townsmen  and  friends. 

He  slept  as  soundly  that  night  as  if  he  had  been  an  inno 
cent  infant ;  but  on  the  following  morning,  sipping  leisurely 
and  luxuriously  at  his  coffee,  and  glancing  over  the  pages  of 
his  favorite  newspaper,  he  discovered  a  letter  with  startling 
headings,  which  displayed  his  own  name  and  bore  the  date  of 
Sevenoaks.  The  "  R"  at  its  foot  revealed  Dr.  Radcliffe  as 
the  writer,  and  the  peppery  doctor  had  not  miscalculated  in 
deciding  that  "  The  New  York  Tattler"  would  be  the  paper 
most  affected  by  Mr.  Belcher — a  paper  with  more  enterprise 
than  brains,  more  brains  than  candor,  and  with  no  conscience 
at  all ;  a  paper  which  manufactured  hoaxes  and  vended  them 
for  news,  bought  and  sold  scandals  by  the  sheet  as  if  they 
were  country  gingerbread,  and  damaged  reputations  one  day 
for  the  privilege  and  profit  of  mending  them  the  next. 

He  read  anew,  and  with  marvelous  amplification,  the  story 
with  which  the  letter  of  his  agent  had  already  made  him  fa 
miliar.  This  time  he  had  received  a  genuine  wound,  with 
poison  upon  the  barb  of  the  arrow  that  had  pierced  him.  He 
crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand  and  ascended  to  his  room.  All 
Wall  street  would  see  it,  comment  upon  it,  and  laugh  over  it. 
Balfour  would  read  it  and  smile.  New  York  and  all  the 
country  would  gossip  about  it.  Mrs.  Dillingham  would  pe 
ruse  it.  Would  it  change  her  attitude  toward  him  ?  This  was 
a  serious  matter,  and  it  touched  him  to  the  quick. 

The  good  angel  who  had  favored  him  all  his  life,  and 
brought  him  safe  and  sound  out  of  every  dirty  difficulty  of  his 
career,  was  already  on  his  way  with  assistance,  although  he 
did  not  know  it.  Sometimes  this  angel  had  assumed  the  form 
of  a  lie,  sometimes  that  of  a  charity,  sometimes  that  of  a 
palliating  or  deceptive  circumstance ;  but  it  had  always  ap- 


202  SEVENOAKS. 

peared  at  the  right  moment ;  and  this  time  it  came  in  the 
form  of  an  interviewing  reporter.  His  bell  rang,  and  a  ser 
vant  appeared  with  the  card  of  "  Mr.  Alphonse  Tibbets  of  '  The 
New  York  Tattler.'  " 

A  moment  before,  he  was  cursing  "The  Tattler  "  for  pub 
lishing  the  record  of  his  shame,  but  he  knew  instinctively  that 
the  way  out  of  his  scrape  had  been  opened  to  him. 

"Show  him  up,"  said  the  proprietor  at  once.  He  had 
hardly  time  to  look  into  his  mirror,  and  make  sure  that  his  hair 
and  his  toilet  were  all  right,  before  a  dapper  little  fellow,  with 
a  professional  manner,  and  a  portfolio  under  his  arm,  was 
ushered  into  the  room.  The  air  of  easy  good-nature  and  good 
fellowship  was  one  which  Mr.  Belcher  could  assume  at  will, 
and  this  was  the  air  that  he  had  determined  upon  as  a  matter 
of  policy  in  dealing  with  a  representative  of  "The  Tat 
tler  "  office.  He  expected  to  meet  a  man  with  a  guilty  look, 
and  a  deprecating,  fawning  smile.  He  was,  therefore,  very 
much  surprised  to  find  in  Mr.  Tibbets  a  young  gentleman 
without  the  slightest  embarrassment  in  his  bearing,  or  the 
remotest  consciousness  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  man 
who  might  possibly  have  cause  of  serious  complaint  against 
"The  Tattler."  In  brief,  Mr.  Tibbets  seemed  to  be  a  man 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  dealing  with  rascals,  and  liked  them. 
Would  Mr.  Tibbets  have  a  cup  of  coffee  sent  up  to  him  ?  Mr. 
Tibbets  had  breakfasted,  and,  therefore,  declined  the  cour 
tesy.  Would  Mr.  Tibbets  have  a  cigar  ?  Mr.  Tibbets  would, 
and,  on  the  assurance  that  they  were  nicer  than  he  would  be 
apt  to  find  elsewhere,  Mr.  Tibbets  consented  to  put  a  handful 
of  cigars  into  his  pocket.  Mr.  Tibbets  then  drew  up  to  the 
table,  whittled  his  pencil,  straightened  out  his  paper,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  business,  looking  much,  as  he  faced  the  proprietor, 
like  a  Sunday-school  teacher  on  a  rainy  day,  with  the  one 
pupil  before  him  who  had  braved  the  storm  because  he  had 
his  lesson  at  his  tongue's  end. 

As  the  substance  of  the  questions  and  answers  appeared  in 
the  next  morning's  "  Tattler,"  hereafter  to  be  quoted,  it  in 


SEVENOAK^  203 

not  necessary  to  recite  them  here.  At  the  close  of  the  inter 
view,  which  was  very  friendly  and  familiar,  Mr.  Belcher  rose, 
and  with  the  remark :  "  You  fellows  must  have  a  pretty  rough 
time  of  it,"  handed  the  reporter  a  twenty-dollar  bank-note, 
which  that  gentleman  pocketed  without  a  scruple,  and  without 
any  remarkable  effusiveness  of  gratitude.  Then  Mr.  Belcher 
wanted  him  to  see  the  house,  and  so  walked  over  it  with  him. 
Mr.  Tibbets  was  delighted.  Mr.  Tibbets  congratulated  him. 
Mr.  Tibbets  went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  did  not  believe  there 
was  another  such  mansion  in  New  York.  Mr.  Tibbets  did 
not  remark  that  he  had  been  kicked  out  of  several  of  them, 
only  less  magnificent,  because  circumstances  did  not  call  for 
the  statement.  Then  Mr.  Tibbets  went  away,  and  walked  off 
hurriedly  down  the  street  to  write  out  his  report. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Belcher  was  up  early  in  order  to 
get  his  "Tattler"  as  soon  as  it  was  dropped  at  his  door.  He 
soon  found,  on  opening  the  reeking  sheet,  the  column  which 
held  the  precious  document  of  Mr.  Tibbets,  and  read : 

"  The  Riot  at  Sevenoaks  !  !  ! 
"  An  interesting  Interview  with  Col.  Belcher  I 

"  The  original  account  grossly  Exaggerated  ! 

"  The  whole  matter  an  outburst  of  Personal  Envy ! 

"  The  Palgrave  Mansion  in  a  fume ! 

"  Tar,  feathers  and  fagots  ! 

"  A  Tempest  in  a  Tea-pot  ! 

"  Petroleum  in  a  blaze,  and  a  thousand  fingers  burnt !  ! ! 
"  Stand  out  from  under !  !  !  " 

The  headings  came  near  taking  Mr.  Belcher's  breath  away. 
He  gasped,  shuddered,  and  wondered  what  was  coming. 
Then  he  went  on  and  read  the  report  of  the  interview : 

"A  'Tattler'  reporter  visited  yesterday  the  great  pro 
prietor  of  Sevenoaks,  Colonel  Robert  Belcher,  at  his  splendid 
mansion  on  Fifth  Avenue.  That  gentleman  had  evidently 
just  swallowed  his  breakfast,  and  was  comforting  himself  ove* 


f04  SEVENOARS. 

the  report  he  had  read  in  the  '  Tattler '  of  that  morning,  "by 
inhaling  the  fragrance  of  one  of  his  choice  Havanas.  He  is 
evidently  a  devotee  of  the  seductive  weed,  and  knows  a  good 
article  when  he  sees  it.  A  copy  of  the  '  Tattler  '  lay  on  the 
table,  which  bore  unmistakable  evidences  of  having  been 
spitefully  crushed  in  the  hand.  The  iron  had  evidently  en 
tered  the  Colonel's  righteous  soul,  and  the  reporter,  having 
first  declined  the  cup  of  coffee  hospitably  tendered  to  him 
and  accepted  (as  he  always  does  when  he  gets  a  chance)  a 
cigar,  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 

"  Reporter :  Col.  Belcher,  have  you  seen  the  report  in  this 
morning's  'Tattler'  of  the  riot  at  Sevenoaks,  which  nomi 
nally  had  your  dealings  with  the  people  for  its  occasion  ? 

"  Answer :  I  have,  and  a  pretty  mess  was  made  of  it. 

"Reporter :  Do  you  declare  the  report  to  be  incorrect  ? 

"  Answer :  I  know  nothing  about  the  correctness  or  the 
incorrectness  of  the  report,  for  I  was  not  there. 

"Reporter  :  Were  the  accusations  made  against  yourself  cor 
rect,  presuming  that  they  were  fairly  and  truthfully  reported  ? 

"Answer:  They  were  so  far  from  being  correct  that 
nothing  could  be  more  untruthful  or  more  malicious. 

"Reporter:  Have  you  any  objection  to  telling  me  the  true 
state  of  the  case  in  detail  ? 

"Answer :  None  at  all.  Indeed,  I  have  been  so  foully  mis 
represented,  that  I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  place  myself 
right  before  a  people  with  whom  I  have  taken  up  my  resi 
dence.  In  the  first  place,  I  made  Sevenoaks.  I  have  fed  the 
people  of  Sevenoaks  for  more  than  ten  years.  I  have  carried 
the  burden  of  their  charities  ;  kept  their  dirty  ministers  from 
starving ;  furnished  employment  for  their  women  and  chil 
dren,  and  run  the  town.  I  had  no  society  there,  and  of 
course,  got  tired  of  my  hum-drum  life.  I  had  worked  hard, 
been  successful,  and  felt  that  I  owed  it  to  myself  and  my  fa 
mily  to  go  somewhere  and  enjoy  the  privileges,  social  and 
educational,  which  I  had  the  means  to  command.  I  came  to 
New  York  without  consulting  anybody,  and  bought  this  house. 


SEVENOAKS.  205 

The  people  protested,  but  ended  by  holding  a  public  meeting, 
and  passing  a  series  of  resolutions  complimentary  to  me,  of 
which  I  very  naturally  felt  proud ;  and  when  I  came  away, 
they  assembled  at  the  roadside  and  gave  me  the  friendliest 
cheers. 

"Reporter:  How  about  the  petroleum? 

"Answer:  Well,  that  is  an  unaccountable  thing.  I  went 
into  the  Continental  Company,  and  nothing  would  do  for  the 
people  but  to  go  in  with  me.  I  warned  them — every  man  of 
them — but  thjey  would  go  in ;  so  I  acted  as  their  agent  in  pro 
curing  stock  for  them.  There  was  not  a  share  of  stock  sold 
on  any  persuasion  of  mine.  They  were  mad,  they  were  wild, 
for  oil.  You  wouldn't  have  supposed  there  was  half  so  much 
money  in  the  town  as  they  dug  out  of  their  old  stockings  to 
invest  in  oil.  I  was  surprised,  I  assure  you.  Well,  the  Con 
tinental  went  up,  and  they  had  to  be  angry  with  somebody ; 
and  although  I  held  more  stock  than  any  of  them,  they  took 
a  fancy  that  I  had  defrauded  them,  and  so  they  came  together 
to  wreak  their  impotent  spite  on  me.  That's  the  sum  and 
substance  of  the  whole  matter. 

"Reporter :  And  that  is  all  you  have  to  say? 

"Answer:  Well,  it  covers  the  ground.  Whether  I  shall 
proceed  in  law  against  these  scoundrels  for  maligning  me,  I 
have  not  determined.  I  shall  probably  do  nothing  about  it. 
The  men  are  poor,  and  even  if  they  were  rich,  what  good 
would  it  do  me  tc  get  their  money?  I've  got  money  enough, 
and  money  with  me  can  never  offset  a  damage  to  character. 
When  they  get  cool  and  learn  the  facts,  if  they  ever  do  learn 
them,  they  will  be  sorry.  They  are  not  a  bad  people  at  heart, 
though  I  am  ashamed,  as  their  old  fellow-townsman,  to  say 
that  they  have  acted  like  children  in  this  matter.  There's  a 
half-crazy,  half-silly  old  doctor  there  by  the  name  of  Rad- 
cliffe,  and  an  old  parson  by  the  name  of  Snow,  whom  I  have 
helped  to  feed  for  years,  who  lead  them  into  difficulty.  But 
they're  not  a  bad  people,  now,  and  I  am  sorry  for  their  sake 
that  this  thing  has  got  into  the  papers.  It'll  hurt  the  town. 


206  SEVEN  OAKS. 

They  have  been  badly  led,  inflamed  over  false  information^ 
and  they  have  disgraced  themselves. 

"  This  closed  the  interview,  and  then  Col.  Belcher  politely 
showed  the  '  Tattler  '  reporter  over  his  palatial  abode. 
*  Taken  for  all  in  all,'  he  does  not  expect  'to  look  upon  its 
like  again/ 

None  see  it  but  to  love  it, 
None  name  it  but  to  praise.' 

"  It  was  'linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,'  and  must  have 
cost  the  gallant  Colonel  a  pile  of  stamps.  Declining  an  invi 
tation  to  visit  the  stables, — for  our  new  millionaire  is  a  lover 
of  horse-flesh,  as  well  as  the  narcotic  weed — and  leaving  that 
gentleman  to  'witch  the  world  with  wondrous  horsemanship,' 
the  '  Tattler  '  reporter  withdrew,  '  pierced  through  with 
Envy's  venomed  darts,'  and  satisfied  that  his  courtly  enter 
tainer  had  been  '  more  sinned  against  than  sinning.'  " 

Col.  Belcher  read  the  report  with  genuine  pleasure,  and 
then,  turning  over  the  leaf,  read  upon  the  editorial  page  the 
following : 

"  COL.  BELCHER  ALL  RIGHT. — We  are  satisfied  that  the  let 
ter  from  Sevenoaks,  published  in  yesterday's  'Tattler/  in  re 
gard  to  our  highly  respected  fellow-citizen,  Colonel  Robert 
Belcher,  was  a  gross  libel  upon  that  gentleman,  and  intended, 
by  the  malicious  writer,  to  injure  an  honorable  and  innocent 
man.  It  is  only  another  instance  of  the  ingratitude  of  rural 
communities  toward  their  benefactors.  We  congratulate  the 
redoubtable  Colonel  on  his  removal  from  so  pestilent  a  neigh 
borhood  to  a  city  where  his  sterling  qualities  will  find  '  ample 
scope  and  verge  enough,'  and  where  those  who  suffer  '  the 
slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune '  will  not  lay  them  to 
the  charge  of  one  who  can,  with  truthfulness,  declare  '  Thou 
canst  not  say  I  did  it.'  M 

When  Mr.  Belcher  concluded,  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"  Twenty  dollars! — cheap  enough."  He  had  remained  at 
home  the  day  before  j  now  he  could  go  upon  '  Change  with  a 


SEVENOAKS.  207 

face  cleared  of  all  suspicion.  A  cloud  of  truth  had  over 
shadowed  him,  but  it  had  been  dissipated  by  the  genial  sun 
light  of  falsehood.  His  self-complacency  was  fully  restored 
when  he  received  a  note,  in  the  daintiest  text  on  the  daintiest 
paper,  congratulating  him  on  the  triumphant  establishment  of 
his  innocence  before  the  New  York  public,  and  bearing  as  its 
signature  a  name  so  precious  to  him  that  tie  took  it  to  his  owa 
room  before  destroying  it  and  kissed  it. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

WHICH  TELLS  ABOUT  MRS.   DILLINGHAM'S  CHRISTMAS  AND  THE 
NEW  YEAR'S  RECEPTION  AT  THE  PALGRAVE  MANSION. 

A  BRILLIANT  Christmas  morning  shone  in  at  Mrs.  Dilling- 
ham's  window,  where  she  sat  quietly  sunning  the  better  side 
of  her  nature.  Her  parlor  was  a  little  paradise,  and  all  things 
around  her  were  in  tasteful  keeping  with  her  beautiful  self. 
The  Christmas  chimes  were  deluging  the  air  with  music ; 
throngs  were  passing  by  on  their  way  to  and  from  church,  and 
exchanging  the  greetings  of  the  day;  wreaths  of  holly  were 
in  her  own  windows  and  in  those  of  her  neighbors;  and  the 
influences  of  the  hour — half  poetical,  half  religious — held 
the  unlovely  and  the  evil  within  her  in  benign  though  tem 
porary  thrall.  The  good  angel  was  dominant  within  her, 
while  the  bad  angel  slept. 

Far  down  the  vista  of  the  ages,  she  was  looking  into  a 
stable  where  a  baby  lay,  warm  in  its  swaddling-clothes,  the 
mother  bending  over  it.  She  saw  above  the  stable  a  single 
star,  which,  palpitating  with  prophecy,  shook  its  long  rays 
out  into  the  form  of  a  cross,  then  drew  them  in  until  they 
circled  into  a  blazing  crown.  Far  above  the  star  the  air  was 
populous  with  lambent  forms  and  resonant  with  shouting 
voices,  and  she  heard  the  words:  "Peace  on  earth,  good-will 
to  men  ! ' '  The  chimes  melted  into  her  reverie  ;  the  kindly 
sun  encouraged  it ;  the  voices  of  happy  children  fed  it,  and 
she  was  moved  to  tears. 

What  could  she  do  now  but  think  over  her  past  life — a  life 
that  had  given  her  no  children — a  life  that  had  been  filled 
neither  by  peace  nor  good-will?  She  had  married  an  old 
208 


SEVEN  OAKS.  21.9 

roan  for  his  money ;  had  worried  him  out  of  his  life,  and  he 
had  gone  and  left  her  childless.  She  would  not  charge  herself 
with  the  crime  of  hastening  to  the  grave  her  father  and 
mother,  but  she  knew  she  had  not  been  a  comfort  to  them. 
Her  willfulness;  her  love  of  money  and  of  power;  her  pride 
.of  person  and  accomplishments ;  her  desire  for  admiration  j 
her  violent  passions,  had  made  her  a  torment  to  others  and  to 
herself.  She  knew  that  no  one  loved  her  for  anything  good 
that  she  possessed,  and  knew  that  her  own  heart  was  barren 
of  love  for  others.  She  felt  that  a  little  child  who  would  call 
her  "mother,"  clinging  to  her  hand,  or  nestling  in  her 
bosom,  could  redeem  her  to  her  better  self;  and  how  could 
she  help  thinking  of  the  true  men  who,  with  their  hearts  in 
their  fresh,  manly  hands,  had  prayed  for  her  love  in  the  dawn 
of  her  young  beauty,  and  been  spurned  from  her  presence — 
men  now  in  the  honorable  walks  of  life  with  their  little  ones 
around  them?  Her  relatives  had  forsaken  her.  There  was 
absolutely  no  one  to  whom  she  could  turn  for  the  sympathy 
which  in  that  hour  she  craved. 

In  these  reflections,  there  was  one  person  of  her  own  blood 
recalled  to  whom  she  had  been  a  curse,  and  of  whom,  for  a 
single  moment,  she  could  not  bear  to  think.  She  had  driven 
him  from  her  presence — the  one  who,  through  all  her  child 
hood,  had  been  her  companion,  her  admirer,  her  loyal  fol 
lower.  He  had  dared  to  love  and  marry  one  whom  she  did 
not  approve,  and  she  had  angrily  banished  him  from  her 
side.  If  she  only  had  him  to  love,  she  felt  that  she  should  be 
better  and  happier,  but  she  had  no  hope  that  he  would  ever 
return  to  her. 

She  felt  now,  with  inexpressible  loathing,  the  unworthiness 
of  the  charms  with  which  she  fascinated  the  base  men  around 
her.  The  only  sympathy  she  had  was  from  these,  and  the 
only  power  she  possessed  was  over  them,  and  through  them. 
The  aim  of  her  life  was  to  fascinate  them ;  the  art  of  her  life 
was  to  keep  them  fascinated  without  the  conscious  degrada 
tion  of  herself,  and,  so,  to  lead  them  whithersoever  she 


aio  SEVENOAKS. 

would.  Her  business  was  the  manufacture  of  slaves — slaves 
to  her  personal  charms  and  her  imperious  will.  Each  slave 
carried  around  his  own  secret,  treated  her  with  distant  defer 
ence  in  society,  spoke  of  her  with  respect,  and  congratulated 
himself  on  possessing  her  supreme  favor.  Not  one  of  them 
had  her  heart,  or  her  confidence.  With  a  true  woman's  in 
stinct,  she  knew  that  no  man  who  would  be  untrue  to  his  wife 
would  be  true  to  her.  So  she  played  with  them  as  with  pup 
pies  that  might  gambol  around  her,  and  fawn  before  her,  but 
might  not  smutch  her  robes  with  their  dirty  feet,  or  get  the 
opportunity  to  bite  her  hand. 

She  had  a  house,  but  she  had  no  home.  Again  and  again 
the  thought  came  to  her  that  in  a  million  homes  that  morning 
the  air  was  full  of  music — hearty  greetings  between  parents 
and  children,  sweet  prattle  from  lips  unstained,  merry  laughter 
from  bosoms  without  a  care.  With  a  heart  full  of  tender  re 
grets  for  the  mistakes  and  errors  of  the  past,  with  unspeaka 
ble  contempt  for  the  life  she  was  living,  and  with  vain  yearn 
ings  for  something  better,  she  rose  and  determined  to  join  the 
throngs  that  were  pressing  into  the  churches.  Hastily  pre 
pared  for  the  street,  she  went  out,  and  soon,  her  heart  re 
sponding  to  the  Christmas  music,  and  her  voice  to  the  Christ 
mas  utterances  from  the  altar,  she  strove  to  lift  her  heart  in 
devotion.  She  felt  the  better  for  it.  It  was  an  old  habit,  and 
the  spasm  was  over.  Having  done  a  good  thing,  she  turned 
her  ear  away  from  the  suggestions  of  her  good  angel,  and,  in 
turning  away,  encountered  the  suggestions  of  worldliness  from 
Jhe  other  side,  which  came  back  to  her  with  their  old  music. 
She  came  out  of  the  church  as  one  comes  out  of  a  theater, 
where  for  hours  he  has  sat  absorbed  in  the  fictitious  passion 
of  a  play,  to  the  grateful  rush  and  roar  of  Broadway,  the 
flashing  of  the  lights,  and  the  shouting  of  the  voices  of  the 
real  world. 

Mr.  Belcher  called  that  evening,  and  she  was  glad  to  see 
nim.  Arrayed  in  all  her  loveliness,  sparkling  with  vivacity 
and  radiant  with  health,  she  sat  and  wove  her  toils  about  him. 


SEVENOAKS.  211 

She  had  never  seemed  lovelier  in  his  eyes,  and,  as  he  thought 
of  the  unresponsive  and  quiet  woman  he  had  left  behind  him, 
he  felt  that  his  home  was  not  on  Fifth  Avenue,  but  in  the 
house  where  he  then  sat.  Somehow — he  could  not  tell  how 
— she  had  always  kept  him  at  a  distance.  He  had  not  dared 
to  be  familiar  with  her.  Up  to  a  certain  point  he  could  carry 
his  gallantries,  but  no  further.  Then  the  drift  of  conversa 
tion  would  change.  Then  something  called  her  away.  He 
grew  mad  with  the  desire  to  hold  her  hand,  to  touch  her,  to 
unburden  his  heart  of  its  passion  for  her,  to  breathe  his  hope 
of  future  possession ;  but  always,  when  the  convenient  moment 
came,  he  was  gently  repelled,  tenderly  hushed,  adroitly  di 
verted.  He  knew  the  devil  was  in  her ;  he  believed  that  she 
was  fond  of  him,  and  thus  knowing  and  believing,  he  was  at 
his  wit's  end  to  guess  why  she  should  be  so  persistently  per 
verse.  He  had  drank  that  day,  and  was  not  so  easily  man 
aged  as  usual,  and  she  had  a  hard  task  to  hold  him  to  his  pro 
prieties.  There  was  only  one  way  to  do  this,  and  that  was  to 
assume  the  pathetic. 

Then  she  told  him  of  her  lonely  day,  her  lack  of  employ 
ment,  her  wish  that  she  could  be  of  some  use  in  the  world, 
and,  finally,  she  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Belcher  would  like 
to  have  her,  Mrs.  Dillingham,  receive  with  her  on  New  Year's 
Day.  If  that  lady  would  not  consider  it  an  intrusion,  she 
should  be  happy  to  shut  her  own  house,  and  thus  be  able  to 
present  all  the  gentlemen  of  the  city  worth  knowing,  not  only 
to  Mrs.  Belcher,  but  to  her  husband. 

To  have  Mrs.  Dillingham  in  the  house  for  a  whole  day,  and 
particularly  to  make  desirable  acquaintances  so  easily,  was  a 
rare  privilege.  He  would  speak  to  Mrs.  Belcher  about  it,  and 
he  was  sure  there  could  be  but  one  answer.  To  be  frank 
about  it,  he  did  not  intend  there  should  be  but  one  answer ; 
but,  for  form's  sake,  it  would  be  best  to  consult  her.  Mr. 
Belcher  did  not  say — what  was  the  truth — that  the  guilt  in  his 
heart  made  him  more  careful  to  consult  Mrs.  Belcher  in  the 
matter  than  he  otherwise  would  have  been ;  but  now  that  his 


212  SEVENOAKS. 

loyalty  to  her  had  ceased,  he  became  more  careful  to  preserve 
its  semblance.  There  was  a  tender  quality  in  Mrs.  Billing 
ham's  voice  as  she  parted  with  him  for  the  evening,  and  a 
half  returned,  suddenly  relinquished  response  to  the  pressure 
of  his  hand,  which  left  the  impression  that  she  had  checked 
an  eager  impulse.  Under  the  influence  of  these,  the  man 
went  out  from  her  presence,  flattered  to  his  heart's  core,  and 
with  his  admiration  of  her  self-contained  and  prudent  passion 
more  exalted  than  ever. 

Mr.  Belcher  went  directly  home,  and  into  Mrs.  Belcher's 
room.  That  good  lady  was  alone,  quietly  reading.  The 
children  had  retired,  and  she  was  spending  her  time  after  her 
custom. 

"Well,  Sarah,  what  sort  of  a  Christmas  have  you  had?" 

Mrs.  Belcher  bit  her  lip,  for  there  was  something  in  her 
husband's  tone  which  conveyed  the  impression  that  he  was 
preparing  to  wheedle  her  into  some  scheme  upon  which  ht 
had  set  his  heart,  and  which  he  felt  or  feared,  would  not  be 
agreeable  to  her.  She  had  noticed  a  change  in  him.  He  was 
tenderer  toward  her  than  he  had  been  for  years,  yet  her  heart 
detected  the  fact  that  the  tenderness  was  a  sham.  She  could 
not  ungraciously  repel  it,  yet  she  felt  humiliated  in  accepting 
it.  So,  as  she  answered  his  question  with  the  words:  "Oh, 
much  the  same  as  usual,"  she  could  not  look  into  his  face 
with  a  smile  upon  her  own. 

"I've  just  been  over  to  call  on  Mrs.  Dillingham,"  said  he. 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes;  I  thought  I  would  drop  in  and  give  her  the  compli 
ments  of  the  season.  She's  rather  lonely,  I  fancy." 

"So  am  I." 

"  Well  now,  Sarah,  there's  a  difference ;  you  know  there  is. 
You  have  your  children,  and " 

"And  she  my  husband." 

"  Well,  she's  an  agreeable  woman,  and  I  must  go  out  some 
times.  My  acquaintance  with  agreeable  women  in  New  York 
is  not  very  large." 


SEVENOAKS.  213 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  your  wife  to  go  with  you  ?  I'm  fond 
of  agreeable  women  too." 

"  You  are  not  fond  of  her,  and  I'm  afraid  she  suspects  it." 

"  I  should  think  she  would.  Women  who  are  glad  to 
receive  alone  the  calls  of  married  men,  always  do  suspect  their 
wives  of  disliking  them." 

"  Well,  it  certainly  isn't  her  fault  that  men  go  to  see  her 
without  their  wives.  Don't  be  unfair  now,  my  dear." 

"I  don't  think  I  am,"  responded  Mrs.  Belcher.  "I  notice 
that  women  never  like  other  women  who  are  great  favorites 
with  men ;  and  there  must  be  some  good  reason  for  it.  Women 
like  Mrs.  Dillingham,  who  abound  in  physical  fascinations  for 
men,  have  no  liking  for  the  society  of  their  own  sex.  I  have 
never  heard  a  woman  speak  well  of  her,  and  I  have  never  heard 
her  speak  well  of  any  other  woman." 

"  I  have,  and,  more  than  that,  I  have  heard  her  speak  well 
of  you.  I  think  she  is  shamefully  belied.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
think  that  either  of  us  has  a  better  friend  than  she,  and  I  have 
a  proposition  to  present  to  you  which  proves  it.  She  is  will 
ing  to  come  to  us  on  New  Year's  Day,  and  receive  with  you — 
to  bring  all  her  acquaintances  into  your  house,  and  make 
them  yours  and  mine." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"Yes;  and  I  think  we  should  be  most  ungrateful  and  dis 
courteous  to  her,  as  well  as  impolitic  with  relation  to  our 
selves  and  to  our  social  future,  not  to  accept  the  proposi 
tion." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  to  be  under  obligations  to  Mrs.  Dil 
lingham  for  society,  or  care  for  the  society  she  will  bring  us. 
I  am  not  pleased  with  a  proposition  of  this  kind  that  comes 
through  my  husband.  If  she  were  my  friend  it  would  be  a 
different  matter,  but  she  is  not.  If  I  were  to  feel  myself 
moved  to  invite  some  lady  to  come  here  and  receive  with  me, 
it  would  be  well  enough ;  but  this  proposition  is  a  stroke  of 
patronage  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  I  don't  like  it.  It 
is  like  Mrs.  Dillingham  and  all  of  her  kind.  Whatever  may 


2i  4  SEVENOAKS. 

have  been  her  motives,  it  was  an  indelicate  thing  to  do,  and 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  for  doing  it." 

Mr.  Belcher  knew  in  his  heart  that  his  wife  was  right.  He 
knew  that  every  word  she  had  spoken  was  the  truth.  He 
knew  that  he  should  never  call  on  Mrs.  Dillingham  with  his 
wife,  save  as  a  matter  of  policy }  but  this  did  not  modify  his 
determination  to  have  his  own  way. 

"You  place  me  in  a  very  awkward  position,  my  dear," 
said  he,  determined,  as  long  as  possible,  to  maintain  an  amia 
ble  mood. 

"  And  she  has  placed  me  in  one  which  you  are  helping 
to  fasten  upon  me,  and  not  at  all  helping  to  relieve  me 
from." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can,  my  dear.  I  am  compelled  to  go 
back  to  her  with  some  answer ;  and,  as  I  am  determined  to 
have  my  house  open,  I  must  say  whether  you  accept  or  de 
cline  her  courtesy ;  for  courtesy  it  is,  and  not  patronage  at 
all." 

Mrs.  Belcher  felt  the  chain  tightening,  and  knew  that  she 
was  to  be  bound,  whether  willing  or  unwilling.  The  con 
sciousness  of  her  impotence  did  not  act  kindly  upon  her  tem 
per,  and  she  burst  out : 

"I  do  not  want  her  here.  I  wish  she  would  have  done 
with  her  officious  helpfulness.  Why  can't  she  mind  her  own 
business,  and  let  me  alone?" 

Mr.  Belcher's  temper  rose  to  the  occasion  ;  for,  although  he 
saw  in  Mrs.  Belcher's  petulance  and  indignation  that  his  vic 
tory  was  half  won,  he  could  not  quite  submit  to  the  abuse  of 
his  brilliant  pet. 

"I  have  some  rights  in  this  house  myself,  my  dear,  and  I 
fancy  that  my  wishes  are  deserving  of  respect,  at  least." 

"Very  well.  If  it's  your  business,  why  did  you  come  to 
me  with  it?  Why  didn't  you  settle  it  before  you  left  the 
precious  lady,  who  is  so  much  worthier  your  consideration 
than  your  wife  ?  Now  go,  and  tell  her  that  it  is  your  wiU 
that  she  shall  receive  with  me,  and  that  I  tamely  submit." 


SEVENOAKS.-  «i$ 

**I  snail  tell  her  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"You  can  say  no  less,  if  you  tell  her  the  truth." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  angry.  Let's  not  talk  about  it  any 
more  to-night.  You  will  feel  differently  about  it  in  the 
morning." 

Of  course,  Mrs.  Belcher  went  to  bed  in  tears,  cried  over  it 
until  she  went  to  sleep,  and  woke  in  the  morning  submissive, 
and  quietly  determined  to  yield  to  her  husband's  wishes.  Of 
course,  Mr.  Belcher  was  not  late  in  informing  Mrs.  Dilling- 
ham  that  his  wife  would  be  most  happy  to  accept  her  proposi 
tion.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Dillingham  lost  no  time  in  sending 
her  card  to  all  the  gentlemen  she  had  ever  met,  with  the  in 
dorsement,  "  Receives  on  New  Year's  with  Mrs.  Col.  Belcher, 

Fifth  Avenue."  Of  course,  too,  after  the  task  was 

accomplished,  she  called  on  Mrs.  Belcher  to  express  her  grati 
tude  for  the  courtesy,  and  to  make  suggestions  about  the 
entertainment.  Was  it  quite  of  course  that  Mrs.  Belcher,  in 
the  presence  of  this  facile  woman,  overflowing  with  kind  feel 
ing,  courteous  deference,  pleasant  sentiment  and  sparkling 
conversation,  should  feel  half  ashamed  of  herself,  and  wonder 
how  one  so  good  and  bright  and  sweet  could  so  have  moved 
her  to  anger  ? 

The  day  came  at  last,  and  at  ten  Mrs.  Dillingham  entered 
the  grand  drawing-room  in  her  queenly  appareling.  She 
applauded  Mrs.  Belcher's  appearance,  she  kissed  the  children, 
all  of  whom  thought  her  the  loveliest  lady  they  had  ever  seen, 
and  in  an  aside  to  Mr.  Belcher  cautioned  him  against  par 
taking  too  bountifully  of  the  wines  he  had  provided  for  his 
guests.  "  Let  us  have  a  nice  thing  of  it,"  she  said,  "  and 
nothing  to  be  sorry  for." 

Mr.  Belcher  was  faithfully  in  her  leading.  It  would  have 
been  no  self-denial  for  him  to  abstain  entirely  for  her  sake. 
He  would  do  anything  she  wished. 

There  was  one  thing  noticeable  in  her  treatment  of  the  lads 
of  the  family,  and  in  their  loyalty  to  her.  She  could  win  a 
boy's  heart  with  a  touch  of  her  hand,  a  smile  and  a  kiss. 


2i6  SEVENOAKS. 

They  clung  to  her  whenever  in  her  presence.  They  hung 
charmed  upon  all  her  words.  They  were  happy  to  do  any 
thing  she  desired ;  and  as  children  see  through  shams  more 
quickly  than  their  elders,  it  could  not  be  doubted  that  she 
had  a  genuine  affection  for  them.  A  child  addressed  the  best 
side  of  her  nature,  and  evoked  a  passion  that  had  never  found 
rest  in  satisfaction,  while  her  heartiness  and  womanly  beauty 
appealed  to  the  boy  nature  with  charms  to  which  it  yielded 
unbounded  admiration  and  implicit  confidence. 

The  reception  was  a  wonderful  success.  Leaving  out  of 
the  account  the  numbers  of  gentlemen  who  came  to  see  the 
revived  glories  of  the  Palgrave  mansion,  there  was  a  large  num 
ber  of  men  who  had  been  summoned  by  Mrs.  Dillingham's 
cards — men  who  undoubtedly  ought  to  have  been  in  better 
business  or  in  better  company.  They  were  men  in  good 
positions — clergymen,  merchants,  lawyers,  physicians,  young 
men  of  good  families — men  whose  wives  and  mothers  and 
sisters  entertained  an  uncharitable  opinion  of  that  lady ;  but 
for  this  one  courtesy  of  a  year  the  men  would  not  be  called 
to  account.  Mrs.  Dillingham  knew  them  all  at  sight,  called 
each  man  promptly  by  name,  and  presented  them  all  to  hei 
dear  friend  Mrs.  Belcher,  and  then  to  Col.  Belcher,  who, 
dividing  his  attention  between  the  drawing-room  and  the 
dining-room,  played  the  host  with  rude  heartiness  and  large 
hospitality. 

Mrs.  Belcher  was  surprised  by  the  presence  of  a  number  of 
men  whose  names  were  familiar  with  the  public — Members 
of  Congress,  representatives  of  the  city  government,  clergy 
men  even,  who  were  generally  supposed  to  be  "  at  home  "  on 
that  day.  Why  had  these  made  their  appearance?  She 
could  only  come  to  one  conclusion,  which  was,  that  they 
regarded  Mrs.  Dillingham  as  a  show.  Mrs.  Dillingham  in  a 
beautiful  house,  arranged  for  self-exhibition,  was  certainly 
more  attractive  than  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  in  wax,  in  a  pul> 
lie  hall ;  and  she  could  be  seen  for  nothing. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Mrs.  Belcher's  estimate  of  their  sex 


SEVENOAKS.  217 

was  materially  raised  by  their  tribute  to  her  companion's 
personal  attractions,  but  they  furnished  her  with  an  interest 
ing  study.  She  was  comforted  by  certain  observations,  viz., 
that  there  were  at  least  twenty  men  among  them  who,  by  their 
manner  and  their  little  speeches,  which  only  a  woman  could 
interpret,  showed  that  they  were  entangled  in  the  same  meshes 
that  had  been  woven  around  her  husband ;  that  they  were  as 
foolish,  as  fond,  as  much  deceived,  and  as  treacherously  en 
tertained  as  he. 

She  certainly  was  amused.  Puffy  old  fellows  with  nosegays 
in  their  button-holes  grew  gallant  and  young  in  Mrs.  Billing- 
ham's  presence,  filled  her  ears  with  flatteries,  received  the 
grateful  tap  of  her  fan,  and  were  immediately  banished  to  the 
dining-room,  from  which  they  emerged  redder  in  the  face  and 
puffier  than  ever.  Dapper  young  men  arriving  in  cabs  threw 
off  their  overcoats  before  alighting,  and  ran  up  the  steps  in 
evening  dress,  went  through  their  automatic  greeting  and 
leave-taking,  and  ran  out  again  to  get  through  their  task  of 
making  almost  numberless  calls  during  the  day.  Steady  old 
men  like  Mr.  Tunbridge  and  Mr.  Schoonmaker,  who  had  had 
the  previous  privilege  of  meeting  Mr.  Belcher,  were  turned 
over  to  Mrs.  Belcher,  with  whom  they  sat  down  and  had  a 
quiet  talk.  Mrs.  Dillingham  seemed  to  know  exactly  how  to 
apportion  the  constantly  arriving  and  departing  guests. 
Some  were  entertained  by  herself,  some  were  given  to  Mr. 
Belcher,  some  to  the  hostess,  and  others  were  sent  directly  to 
the  refreshment  tables  to  be  fed. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  brought  into  contact  with  men  of  his  own 
kind,  who  did  not  fail  to  recognize  him  as  a  congenial  spirit, 
and  to  express  the  hope  of  seeing  more  of  him,  now  that  he 
had  become  "one  of  us."  Each  one  knew  some  other  one 
whom  he  would  take  an  early  opportunity  of  presenting  to 
Mr.  Belcher.  They  were  all  glad  he  was  in  New  York.  It 
was  the  place  for  him.  Everything  was  open  to  such  a  man 
as  he,  in  such  a  city,  and  they  only  wondered  why  he  had 
been  content  to  remain  so  long,  shut  away  from  his  own  kind. 
10 


2i8  SEVENOAKS. 

These  expressions  of  brotherly  interest  were  very  pleasant 
to  Mr.  Belcher.  They  flattered  him  and  paved  the  way  for  a 
career.  He  would  soon  be  hand-in-glove  with  them  all.  He 
would  soon  find  the  ways  of  their  prosperity,  and  make  him 
self  felt  among  them. 

The  long  afternoon  wore  away,  and,  just  as  the  sun  was 
setting,  Mrs.  Belcher  was  called  from  the  drawing-room  by 
some  family  care,  leaving  Mr.  Belcher  and  Mrs.  Dillingham 
together. 

"Don't  be  gone  long,"  said  the  latter  to  Mrs.  Belcher,  as 
she  left  the  room. 

"  Be  gone  till  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  in  a 
whisper  at  Mrs.  Dillingham' s  ear. 

"  You're  a  wretch,"  said  the  lady. 

"You're  right — a  very  miserable  wretch.  Here  you've 
been  playing  the  devil  with  a  hundred  men  all  day,  and  I've 
been  looking  at  you.  Is  there  any  article  of  your  apparel  that 
I  can  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dillingham  laughed  him  in  his  face.  Then  she  took 
a  wilted  rose-bud  from  a  nosegay  at  her  breast,  and  gave  it  to 
him. 

"  My  roses  are  all  faded,"  she  said — "  worth  nothing  to  me 
— worth  nothing  to  anybody — except  you." 

Then  she  passed  to  the  window  ;  to  hide  her  emotion  ?  to 
hide  her  duplicity?  to  change  the  subject?  to  give  Mr.  Bel 
cher  a  glance  at  her  gracefully  retreating  figure  ?  to  show  her 
self,  framed  by  the  window,  into  a  picture  for  the  delight  of 
his  devouring  eyes  ? 

Mr.  Belcher  followed  her.  His  hand  lightly  touched  her 
waist,  and  she  struck  it  down,  as  if  her  own  were  the  velvet 
paw  of  a  lynx. 

"  You  startled  me  so !  "  she  said. 

"  Are  you  always  to  be  startled  so  easily  ? 

"Here?  yes." 

"  Everywhere  ?  " 

"Yes.     Perhaps  so." 


SEVENOAKS.  319 

"Thank  you." 

"For  what?" 

"For  the  perhaps." 

"  You  are  easily  pleased  and  grateful  for  nothing ;  and,  now, 
tell  me  who  lives  opposite  to  you?" 

"A  lawyer  by  the  name  of  James  Balfour." 

"  James  Balfour  ?  Why,  he's  one  of  my  old  flames.  He 
ought  to  have  been  here  to-day.  Perhaps  he'll  be  in  this 
evening." 

"Not  he." 

"Why?" 

"  He  has  the  honor  to  be  an  enemy  of  mine,  and  knows 
that  I  would  rather  choke  him  than  eat  my  dinner." 

"You  men  are  such  savages;  but  aren't  those  nice  boys  on 
the  steps?" 

"  I  happen  to  know  one  of  them,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
why  he  is  there,  and  how  he  came  there.  Between  you  and 
me,  now — strictly  between  you  and  me — that  boy  is  the  only 
person  that  stands  between  me  and — and — a  pile  of  money." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?    Which  one,  now  ?" 

"The  larger." 

"But,  isn't  he  lovely?" 

"He's  a  Sevenoaks  pauper." 

"You  astonish  me." 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth,  and  Balfour  has  managed,  in  some 
way,  to  get  hold  of  him,  and  means  to  make  money  out  of  me 
by  it.  I  know  men.  You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  men  ; 
and  my  excellent  neighbor  will  have  his  hands  full,  whenever 
he  sees  fit  to  undertake  his  job." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it  now,"  said  Mrs.  Dillingham,  her  eyes 
alight  with  genuine  interest. 

"  Not  now,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  would  like  to  have  you 
do.  You  have  a  way  of  making  boys  love  you,  and  men  too 
—for  that  matter — and  precious  little  do  they  get  for  it." 

"  Candid  and  complimentary,"  she  sighed. 

*'  Well,  I've  seen  you  manage  with  my  boys,  and  I  would 


*2o  SEVENOAKS. 

like  to  have  you  try  it  with  him.  Meet  him  in  the  street^ 
manage  to  speak  to  him,  get  him  into  your  house,  make  him 
love  you.  You  can  do  it.  You  are  bold  enough,  ingenious 
enough,  and  subtle  enough  to  do  anything  of  that  kind  you 
will  undertake.  Some  time,  if  you  have  him  under  your  in 
fluence,  you  may  be  of  use  to  me.  Some  time,  he  may  be 
glad  to  hide  in  your  house.  No  harm  can  come  to  you  in 
making  his  acquaintance." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  talking  very  strangely  to  me?" 

"  No.  I'm  talking  business.  Is  that  a  strange  thing  to  a 
woman  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Dillingham  made  no  reply,  but  stood  and  watched  the 
boys,  as  they  ran  up  and  down  the  steps  in  play,  with  a  smile 
of  sympathy  upon  her  face,  and  genuine  admiration  of  the 
graceful  motions  and  handsome  face  and  figure  of  the  lad  of 
whom  Mr.  Belcher  had  been  talking.  Her  curiosity  was 
piqued,  her  love  of  intrigue  was  appealed  to,  and  she  deter 
mined  to  do,  at  the  first  convenient  opportunity,  what  Mr 
Belcher  desired  her  to  do. 

Then  Mrs.  Belcher  returned,  and  the  evening,  like  the 
afternoon,  was  devoted  to  the  reception  of  guests,  and  when, 
at  last,  the  clock  struck  eleven,  and  Mrs.  Dillingham  stooc 
bonneted  and  shawled  ready  to  go  home  in  the  carriage  tha, 
waited  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Belcher  kissed  her,  while  Mr.  Bel 
cher  looked  on  in  triumph. 

"  Now,  Sarah,  haven't  we  had  a  nice  day?  "  said  he, 

"Very  pleasant,  indeed." 

"And  haven't  I  behaved  well?  Upon  my  word,  I  believe 
I  shall  have  to  stand  treat  to  my  own  abstinence,  before  I  go 
to  bed." 

"Yes,  you've  been  wonderfully  good,"  remarked  his  wife. 

"  Men  are  such  angels !  "  said  Mrs.  Dillingham. 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  led  Mrs. 
Dillingham  to  her  carriage,  got  in  after  her,  slammed  the 
door,  and  drove  away. 

No  sooner  were  they  in  the  carriage  than  Mrs.  Dillingham 


SEVENOAKS.  221 

went  to  talking  about  the  little  boy,  in  the  most  furious  man- 
ner.  Poor  Mr.  Belcher  could  not  divert  her,  could  not  in 
duce  her  to  change  the  subject,  could  not  get  in  a  word  edge 
wise,  could  not  put  forward  a  single  apology  for  the  kiss  he 
intended  to  win,  did  not  win  his  kiss  at  all.  The  little  jour 
ney  was  ended,  the  carriage  door  thrown  open  by  her  own 
hand,  and  she  was  out  without  his  help. 

"Good-nig /it;  don't  get  out,"  and  she  flew  up  the  steps 
and  rang  the  bell. 

Mr.  Belcher  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  him  home,  and 
then  sank  back  on  his  seat,  and  crowding  his  lips  together, 
and  compressing  his  disappointment  into  his  familiar  exple 
tive,  he  rode  back  to  his  house  as  rigid  in  every  muscle  as  if 
he  had  been  frozen. 

"  Is  there  any  such  thing  as  a  virtuous  devil,  I  wonder,"  he 
muttered  to  himself,  as  he  mounted  his  steps.  "I  doubt  it; 
I  doubt  it." 

The  next  day  was  icy.  Men  went  slipping  along  upon  the 
side-walks  as  carefully  as  if  they  were  trying  to  follow  a  guide 
through  the  galleries  of  Versailles.  And  in  the  afternoon  a 
beautiful  woman  called  a  boy  to  her,  and  begged  him  to  give 
her  his  shoulder  and  help  her  home.  The  request  was  so 
sweetly  made,  she  expressed  her  obligations  so  courteously, 
she  smiled  upon  him  so  beautifully,  she  praised  him  s<* 
ingenuously,  she  shook  his  hand  at  parting  so  heartily> 
that  he  went  home  all  aglow  from  his  heart  to  his  finger's 
ends. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  had  made  Harry  Benedict's  acquaintance, 
which  she  managed  to  keep  alive  by  bows  in  the  street  and 
bows  from  the  window, — managed  to  keep  alive  until  the  lad 
worshiped  her  as  a  sort  of  divinity  and,  to  win  her  smiling 
recognition,  would  go  out  of  his  way  a  dozen  blocks  on  any 
errand  about  the  city. 

He  recognized  her — knew  her  as  the  beautiful  woman  he 
had  seen  in  the  great  house  across  the  street  before  Mr.  Bel 
cher  arrived  in  town.  Recognizing  her  as  such,  he  kept  the 


822  SEVENOAKS. 

secret  of  his  devotion  to  himself,  for  fear  that  it  would  be 
frowned  upon  by  his  good  friends  the  Balfours.  Mr.  Bel 
cher,  however,  knew  all  about  it,  rejoiced  in  it,  and  count 
ed  upon  it  as  a  possible  means  in  the  accomplishment  of  his 
ends. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

WHICH  GIVES  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  A  VOLUNTARY  AND  AN  INVOLUNTARl 
VISIT  OF  SAM   YATES  TO  NUMBER   NINE. 

MR.  BELCHER  followed  up  the  acquaintance  which  he  had 
so  happily  made  on  New  Year's  Day  with  many  of  the  leading 
operators  of  Wall  street,  during  the  remainder  of  the  winter, 
and,  by  the  careful  and  skillful  manipulation  of  the  minor 
stocks  of  the  market,  not  only  added  to  his  wealth  by  sure 
and  steady  degrees,  but  built  up  a  reputation  for  sagacity  and 
boldness.  He  struck  at  them  with  a  strong  hand,  and  gra 
dually  became  a  recognized  power  on  'Change.  He  knew 
that  he  would  not  be  invited  into  any  combinations  until  he 
had  demonstrated  his  ability  to  stand  alone.  He  understood 
that  he  could  not  win  a  leading  position  in  any  of  the  great 
financial  enterprises  until  he  had  shown  that  he  had  the  skill 
to  manage  them.  He  was  playing  for  two  stakes — present 
profit  and  future  power  and  glory ;  and  he  played  with  brave 
adroitness. 

During  the  same  winter  the  work  at  Number  Nine  went  on 
according  to  contract.  Mike  Conlin  found  his  second  horse 
and  the  requisite  sled,  and,  the  river  freezing  solidly  and  con 
tinuously,  he  was  enabled  not  only  to  draw  the  lumber  to  the 
river,  but  up  to  the  very  point  where  it  was  to  be  used,  and 
where  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict  were  hewing  and  framing  their 
timber,  and  pursuing  their  trapping  with  unflinching  industry. 
Number  Ten  was  transformed  into  a  stable,  where  Mike  kept 
his  horses  on  the  nights  of  his  arrival.  Two  trips  a  week  were 
all  that  he  could  accomplish,  but  the  winter  was  so  long,  and 
he  was  so  industrious,  that  before  the  ice  broke  up,  everything 

,  223 


224  SEVENOAKS. 

for  the  construction  of  the  house  had  been  delivered,  even  to 
the  bricks  for  the  chimney,  the  lime  for  the  plastering,  and 
the  last  clapboard  and  shingle.  The  planning,  the  chaffing, 
the  merry  stories  of  which  Number  Nine  was  the  scene  that 
winter,  the  grand,  absorbing  interest  in  the  enterprise  in 
which  these  three  men  were  engaged,  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
recount,  but  they  may  safely  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagina 
tion.  What  was  Sam  Yates  doing  ? 

He  lived  up  to  the  letter  of  his  instructions.  Finding  him 
self  in  the  possession  of  an  assured  livelihood,  respectably 
dressed  and  engaged  in  steady  employment,  his  appetite  for 
drink  loosened  its  cruel  hold  upon  him,  and  he  was  once  more 
in  possession  of  himself.  All  the  week  long  he  was  busy  m 
visiting  hospitals,  alms-houses  and  lunatic  asylums,  and  in 
examining  their  records  and  the  mortuary  records  of  the  city. 
Sometimes  he  presented  himself  at  the  doors  of  public  institu 
tions  as  a  philanthropist,  preparing  by  personal  inspection  for 
writing  some  book,  or  getting  statistics,  or  establishing  an 
institution  on  behalf  of  a  public  benefactor.  Sometimes  he 
went  in  the  character  of  a  lawyer,  in  search  of  a  man  who  had 
fallen  heir  to  a  fortune.  He  had  always  a  plausible  story  to 
tell,  and  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  an  entrance  at  all 
the  doors  to  which  his  inquisition  led  him.  He  was  treated 
everywhere  so  courteously  that  his  self-respect  was  wonderfully 
nourished,  and  he  began  to  feel  as  if  it  were  possible  for  him 
to  become  a  man  again. 

On  every  Saturday  night,  according  to  Mr.  Belcher's  com 
mand,  he  made  his  appearance  in  the  little  basement-room  of 
the  grand  residence,  where  he  was  first  presented  to  the  reader. 
On  these  occasions  he  always  brought  a  clean  record  of  what 
he  had  done  during  the  week,  which  he  read  to  Mr.  Belcher, 
and  then  passed  into  that  gentleman's  hands,  to  be  filed  away 
and  preserved.  On  every  visit,  too,  he  was  made  to  feel  that 
he  was  a  slave.  As  his  self-respect  rose  from  week  to  week, 
the  coarse  and  brutal  treatment  of  the  proprietor  was  in 
creased.  Mr.  Belcher  feared  that  the  man  was  getting  above 


SEVENOAKS.  225 

his  business,  and  that,  as  the  time  approached  when  he  might 
need  something  very  different  from  these  harmless  investiga 
tions,  his  instrument  might  become  too  fine  for  use. 

Besides  the  ministry  to  his  self-respect  which  his  labors 
rendered,  there  was  another  influence  upon  Sam  Yates  that 
tended  to  confirm  its  effects.  He  had  in  his  investigations 
come  into  intimate  contact  with  the  results  of  all  forms  of 
vice.  Idiocy,  insanity,  poverty,  moral  debasement,  disease 
in  a  thousand  repulsive  forms,  all  these  had  frightened  and 
disgusted  him.  On  the  direct  road  to  one  of  these  terrible 
goals  he  had  been  traveling.  He  knew  it,  and,  with  a  shud 
der  many  times  repeated,  felt  it.  He  had  been  arrested  in 
the  downward  road,  and,  God  helping  him,  he  would  never 
resume  it.  He  had  witnessed  brutal  cruelties  and  neglect 
among  officials  that  maddened  him.  The  professional  indif 
ference  of  keepers  and  nurses  towards  those  who,  if  vicious, 
were  still  unfortunate  and  helpless,  offended  and  outraged  all 
of  manhood  there  was  left  in  him. 

One  evening,  early  in  the  spring,  he  made  his  customary 
call  upon  Mr.  Belcher,  bringing  his  usual  report.  He  had 
completed  the  canvass  of  the  city  and  its  environs,  and  had 
found  no  testimony  to  the  death  or  recent  presence  of  Mr. 
Benedict.  He  hoped  that  Mr.  Belcher  was  done  with  him, 
for  he  saw  that  his  brutal  will  was  the  greatest  obstacle  to  his 
reform.  If  he  could  get  away  from  his  master,  he  could 
begin  life  anew ;  for  his  professional  brothers,  who  well  remem 
bered  his  better  days,  were  ready  to  throw  business  into  his 
hands,  now  that  he  had  become  himself  again. 

"  I  suppose  this  ends  it,"  said  Yates,  as  he  read  his  report, 
and  passed  it  over  into  Mr.  Belcher's  hands. 

"Oh,  you  do!" 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  be  of  further  use  to  you." 

"Oh,  you  don't!" 

"  I  have  certainly  reason  to  be  grateful  for  your  assistance, 
but  I  have  no  desire  to  be  a  burden  upon  your  hands.  I 
think  I  can  get  a  living  now  in  my  profession. ' ' 

10*    ' 


226  SEVENOAKS. 

"Then  we've  found  that  we  have  a  profession,  have  we? 
We've  become  highly  respectable." 

"  I  really  don't  see  what  occasion  you  have  to  taunt  me. 
I  have  done  my  duty  faithfully,  and  taken  no  more  than  my 
just  pay  for  the  labor  I  have  performed." 

"  Sam  Yates,  I  took  you  out  of  the  gutter.  Do  you  know 
that?" 

"I  do,  sir." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  my  doing  such  a  thing  as  that 
before?" 

"  I  never  did." 

"  What  do  you  suppose  I  did  it  for?" 

"To  serve  yourself." 

"  You  are  right ;  and  now  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
done  with  you  yet,  and  I  shall  not  be  done  with  you  until  I 
have  in  my  hands  a  certificate  of  the  death  of  Paul  Benedict, 
and  an  instrument  drawn  up  in  legal  form,  making  over  to 
me  all  his  right,  title  and  interest  in  every  patented  invention 
of  his  which  I  am  now  using  in  my  manufactures.  Do  you 
hear  that?" 

"I  do." 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  it  ?  Are  you  going  to  live  up 
to  your  pledge,  or  are  you  going  to  break  with  me?" 

"If  I  could  furnish  such  an  instrument  honorably,  I  would 
doit." 

"  Hm  !  I  tell  you,  Sam  Yates,  this  sort  of  thing  won't  do." 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  left  the  room,  and  soon  returned  with  a 
glass  and  a  bottle  of  brandy.  Setting  them  upon  the  table, 
he  took  the  key  from  the  outside  of  the  door,  inserted  it  upon 
the  inside,  turned  it,  and  then  withdrew  it,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket.  Yates  rose  and  watched  him,  his  face  pale,  and  his 
heart  thumping  at  his  side  like  a  tilt-hammer. 

"Sam  Yates,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "you  are  getting  alto 
gether  too  virtuous.  Nothing  will  cure  you  but  a  good,  old- 
fashioned  drunk.  Dip  in,  now,  and  take  your  fill.  You  can 
lie  here  all  night  if  you  wish  to." 


SEVENOAKS.  227 

Mr.  Belcher  drew  the  cork,  and  poured  out  a  tumblerful 
of  the  choice  old  liquid.  Its  fragrance  filled  the  little  room. 
It  reached  the  nostrils  of  the  poor  slave,  who  shivered  as  if 
an  ague  had  smitten  him.  He  hesitated,  advanced  toward 
the  table,  retreated,  looked  at  Mr.  Belcher,  then  at  the 
brandy,  then  walked  the  room,  then  paused  before  Mr.  Bel 
cher,  who  had  coolly  watched  the  struggle  from  his  chair. 
The  victim  of  this  passion  was  in  the  supreme  of  torment. 
His  old  thirst  was  roused  to  fury.  The  good  resolutions  of 
the  preceding  weeks,  the  moral  strength  he  had  won,  the  mo 
tives  that  had  come  to  life  within  him,  the  promise  of  a  better 
future,  sank  away  into  blank  nothingness.  A  patch  of  fire 
burned  on  either  cheek.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot. 

"  Oh  God  !  Oh  God  !"  he  exclaimed,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  Fudge  !  "  said  Mr.  Belcher.  "What  do  you  make  an  ass 
uf  yourself  for  ?  ' ' 

"  If  you'll  take  these  things  out  of  the  room,  and  see  that 
I  drink  nothing  to-night,  I'll  do  anything.  They  are  hell  and 
damnation  to  me.  Don't  you  see?  Have  you  no  pity  on 
me  ?  Take  them  away  !  ' ' 

Mr.  Belcher  was  surprised,  but  he  had  secured  the  promise 
he  was  after,  and  so  he  coolly  rose  and  removed  the  offensive 
temptation. 

Yates  sat  down  as  limp  as  if  he  had  had  a  sunstroke.  After 
sitting  a  long  time  in  silence,  he  looked  up,  and  begged  for 
the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  the  house.  He  did  not  dare  to 
trust  himself  in  the  street  until  sleep  had  calmed  and  strength 
ened  him. 

There  was  a  lounge  in  the  room,  and,  calling  a  servant, 
Mr.  Belcher  ordered  blankets  to  be  brought  down.  "  You 
can  sleep  here  to-night,  and  I  will  see  you  in  the  morning," 
said  he,  rising,  and  leaving  him  without  even  the  common 
courtesy  of  a  "  good-night." 

Poor  Sam  Yates  had  a  very  bad  night  indeed.  He  was 
humiliated  by  the  proof  of  his  weakness,  and  maddened  by 


228  SEVENOAKS. 

the  outrage  which  had  been  attempted  upon  him  and  his  good 
resolutions.  In  the  morning,  he  met  Mr.  Belcher,  feeble  and 
unrefreshed,  and  with  seeming  acquiescence  received  his  di 
rections  for  future  work. 

' '  I  want  you  to  take  the  road  from  here  to  Sevenoaks, 
stopping  at  every  town  on  the  way.  You  can  be  sure  of  this : 
he  is  not  near  Sevenoaks.  The  whole  county,  and  in  fact 
:he  adjoining  counties,  were  all  ransacked  to  find  him.  He 
cannot  have  found  asylum  there ;  so  he  must  be  either  between 
here  and  Sevenoaks,  or  must  have  gone  into  the  woods  beyond. 
There's  a  trapper  there,  one  Jim  Fenton.  He  may  have  come 
across  him  in  the  woods,  alive  or  dead,  and  I  want  you  to  go 
to  his  camp  and  find  out  whether  he  knows  anything.  My 
impression  is  that  he  knew  Benedict  well,  and  that  Benedict 
used  to  hunt  with  him.  When  you  come  back  to  me,  after  a 
faithful  search,  with  the  report  that  you  can  find  nothing  of 
him,  or  with  the  report  of  his  death,  we  shall  be  ready  foj 
decisive  operations.  Write  me  when  you  have  anything  tc 
write,  and  if  you  find  it  necessary  to  spend  money  to  secure 
any  very  desirable  end,  spend  it." 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  put  into  the  hands  of  his  agent  a  roll  of 
bank-notes,  and  armed  him  with  a  check  that  might  be  used 
in  case  of  emergency,  and  sent  him  off. 

It  took  Yates  six  long  weeks  to  reach  Sevenoaks.  He  labored 
daily  with  the  same  faithfulness  that  had  characterized  his 
operations  in  the  city,  and,  reaching  Sevenoaks,  he  found 
himself  for  a  few  days  free  from  care,  and  at  liberty  to  resume 
the  acquaintance  with  his  early  home,  where  he  and  Robert 
Belcher  had  been  boys  together. 

The  people  of  Sevenoaks  had  long  before  heard  of  the  fall 
of  Sam  Yates  from  his  early  rectitude.  They  had  once  been 
proud  of  him,  and  when  he  left  them  for  the  city,  they  ex 
pected  to  hear  great  things  of  him.  So  when  they  learned 
that,  after  entering  upon  his  profession  with  brilliant  promise, 
he  had  ruined  himself  with  drink,  they  bemoaned  him  for  a 
while,  and  at  last  forgot  him.  His  relatives  never  mentioned 


SEVENOAKS.  "  §29 

him,  and  when,  well  dressed,  dignified,  self-respectful,  he  ap 
peared  among  them  again,  it  was  like  receiving  one  from 
the  dead.  The  rejoicing  of  his  relatives,  the  cordiality  of  his 
old  friends  and  companions,  the  reviving  influences  of  the 
scenes  of  his  boyhood,  all  tended  to  build  up  his  self-respect, 
reinforce  his  strength,  and  fix  his  determinations  for  a  new 
life. 

Of  course  he  did  not  make  known  his  business,  and  of 
course  he  heard  a  thousand  inquiries  about  Mr.  Belcher,  and 
listened  to  the  stories  of  the  proprietor's  foul  dealings  with 
the  people  of  his  native  town.  His  own  relatives  had  been 
straitened  or  impoverished  by  the  man's  rascalities,  and  the 
fact  was  not  calculated  to  strengthen  his  loyalty  to  his  em 
ployer.  He  heard  also  the  whole  story  of  the  connection  of 
Mr.  Belcher  with  Benedict's  insanity,  of  the  escape  of  the 
latter  from  the  poor-house,  and  of  the  long  and  unsuccessful 
search  that  had  been  made  for  him. 

He  spent  a  delightful  week  among  his  friends  in  the  old 
village,  learned  about  Jim  Fenton  and  the  way  to  reach  him, 
and  on  a  beautiful  spring  morning,  armed  with  fishing  tackle, 
started  from  Sevenoaks  for  a  fortnight's  absence  in  the  woods. 
The  horses  were  fresh,  the  air  sparkling,  and  at  mid-afternoon 
he  found  himself  standing  by  the  river-side,  with  a  row  of  ten 
miles  before  him  in  a  birch  canoe,  whose  hiding-place  Mike 
Conlin  had  revealed  to  him  during  a  brief  call  at  his  house. 
To  his  unused  muscles  it  was  a  serious  task  to  undertake,  but 
he  was  not  a  novice,  and  it  was  entered  upon  deliberately  and 
with  a  prudent  husbandry  of  his  power  of  endurance.  Great 
was  the  surprise  of  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict,  as  they  sat  eating 
their  late  supper,  to  hear  the  sound  of  the  paddle  down  the 
river,  and  to  see  approaching  them  a  city  gentleman,  who, 
greeting  them  courteously,  drew  up  in  front  of  their  cabin, 
took  out  his  luggage,  and  presented  himself. 

"Where's  Jim  Fenton?"  said  Yates. 

"That's  me.  Them  as  likes  me  calls  me  Jim,  and  them  ai 
don't  like  me— wall,  they  don't  call." 


230  SEVENOAKS. 

"Well,  I've  called,  and  I  call  you  Jim." 

"All  right ;  let's  see  yer  tackle,"  said  Jim. 

Jim  took  the  rod  that  Yates  handed  to  him,  looked  it  over$ 
and  then  said  :  "  When  ye  come  to  Sevenoaks  ye  didn't  think 
o'  goin'  a  fishin'.  This  'ere  tackle  wasn't  brung  from  the 
city,  and  ye  ain't  no  old  fisherman.  This  is  the  sort  they 
keep  down  to  Sevenoaks." 

"No,"  said  Yates,  flushing;  "I  thought  I  should  find  near 
you  the  tackle  used  here,  so  I  didn't  burden  myself." 

"That  seems  reasonable,"  said  Jim,  "but  it  ain't.  A 
trout's  a  trout  anywhere,  an*  ye  hain't  got  no  reel.  Ye  never 
fished  with  anything  but  a  white  birch  pole  in  yer  life." 

Yates  was  amused,  and  laughed.  Jim  did  not  laugh.  He 
was  just  as  sure  that  Yates  had  come  on  some  errand,  for 
which  his  fishing  tackle  was  a  cover,  as  that  he  had  come  at 
all.  He  could  think  of  but  one  motive  that  would  bring  the 
man  into  the  woods,  unless  he  came  for  sport,  and  for  sport 
he  did  not  believe  his  visitor  had  come  at  all.  He  was  not 
dressed  for  it.  None  but  old  sportsmen,  with  nothing  else  to 
do,  ever  came  into  the  woods  at  that  season. 

"Jim,  introduce  me  to  your  friend,"  said  Yates,  turning 
to  Mr.  Benedict,  who  had  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  and  sat 
uneasily  witnessing  the  meeting,  and  listening  to  the  conver 
sation. 

"Well,  I  call  'im  Number  Ten.  His  name's  Williams; 
an*  now  if  ye  ain't  too  tired,  perhaps  ye' 11  tell  us  what  they 
call  ye  to  home." 

"  Well,  I'm  Number  Eleven,  and  my  name's  Williams,  too." 

"  Then,  if  yer  name's  Williams,  an'  ye're  Number  'leven, 
ye  want  some  supper.  Set  down  an*  help  yerself." 

Before  taking  his  seat,  Yates  turned  laughingly  to  Mr. 
Benedict,  shook  his  hand,  and  "  hoped  for  a  better  acquaint 
ance." 

Jim  was  puzzled.  The  man  was  no  ordinary  man  ;  he  was 
good-natured  ;  he  was  not  easily  perturbed ;  he  was  there 
with  a  purpose,  and  that  purpose  had  nothing  to  do  with  sport 


SEVENOAKS.  231 

After  Yates  had  satisfied  his  appetite  with  the  coarse  food 
before  him,  and  had  lighted  his  cigar,  Jim  drove  directly  at 
business. 

"  What  brung  ye  here  ?"  said  he. 

"  A  pair  of  horses  and  a  birch  canoe." 

"Oh  !  I  didn't  know  but  'twas  a  mule  and  a  bandanner 
nankercher,"  said  Jim;  "and  whar  be  ye  goin'  to  sleep  to 
night?" 

"  In  the  canoe,  I  suppose,  if  some  hospitable  man  doesn't 
invite  me  to  sleep  in  his  cabin." 

"  An*  if  ye  sleep  in  his  cabin,  what  be  ye  goin'  to  do  to- 
morrer?" 

"Get  up." 

"An*  clear  out?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  love  to  see  folks  make  themselves  to  home ;  but 
ye  don't  sleep  in  no  cabin  o'  mine  till  I  know  who  ye  be,  an' 
what  ye' re  arter." 

"Jim,  did  you  ever  hear  of  entertaining  angels  unaware  ?" 
and  Yates  looked  laughingly  into  his  face. 

"  No,  but  I've  hearn  of  angels  entertainin*  theirselves  on 
tin-ware,  an'  I've  had  'em  here." 

"  Do  you  have  tin  peddlers  here?"  inquired  Yates,  looking 
around  him. 

"No,  but  we  have  paupers  sometimes,"  and  Jim  looked 
Yates  directly  in  the  eye. 

"What  paupers?" 

"From  Sevenoaks." 

"  And  do  they  bring  tin-ware?" 

"  Sartin  they  do  ;  leastways,  one  on  'em  did,  an*  I  never 
seen  but  one  in  the  woods,  an'  he  come  here  one  night  tootin* 
on  a  tin  horn,  an*  blowin'  about  bein'  the  angel  Gabrel.  Do 
you  see  my  har  ?" 

"  Rather  bushy,  Jim." 

"Well,  that's  the  time  it  come  up,  an*  it's  never  been  tired 
enough  to  lay  down  sence." 


*3»  SEVENOAKS. 

"  What  became  of  Gabriel?" 

"  I  skeered  'im,  and  he  went  off  into  the  woods  pertendin1 
he  was  tryin'  to  catch  a  bullet.  That's  the  kind  o'  ball  I 
allers  use  when  I  have  a  little  game  with  a  rovin'  angel  that 
comes  kadoodlin'  round  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  afterward  ?"  inquired  Yates. 

"  Yes,  I  seen  him.  He  laid  down  one  night  under  a  tree, 
an*  he  wasn't  called  to  breakfast,  an*  he  never  woke  up.  So 
I  made  up  my  mind  he'd  gone  to  play  angel  somewheres  else, 
an*  I  dug  a  hole  an'  put  'im  into  it,  an*  he  hain't  never 
riz,  if  so  be  he  wasn't  Number  'leven,  an1  his  name  was 
Williams." 

Yates  did  not  laugh,  but  manifested  the  most  eager  interest. 

"Jim,"  said  he,  "can  you  show  me  his  bones,  and  swear 
to  your  belief  that  he  was  an  escaped  pauper?" 

"Easy." 

"Was  there  a  man  lost  from  the  poor-house  about  that 
time?" 

"Yes,  an*  there  was  a  row  about  it,  an*  arterward  old 
Buffum  was  took  with  knowin'  less  than  he  ever  knowed  afore. 
He  always  did  make  a  fuss  about  breathin',  so  he  give  it  up." 

"Well,  the  man  you  buried  is  the  man  I'm  after." 

"Yes,  an*  old  Belcher  sent  ye.  I  knowed  it.  I  smelt  the 
old  feller  when  I  heern  yer  paddle.  When  a  feller  works  for 
the  devil  it  ain't  hard  to  guess  what  sort  of  a  angel  he  is.  Ye 
must  feel  mighty  proud  o*  yer  belongins." 

"  Jim,  I'm  a  lawyer ;  it's  my  business.  I  do  what  I'm 
hired  to  do." 

"Well,"  responded  Jim,  "I  don't  know  nothin*  about 
lawyers,  but  I'd  rather  be  a  natural  born  cuss  nor  a  hired 
one." 

Yates  laughed,  but  Jim  was  entirely  sober.  The  lawyer 
saw  that  he  was  unwelcome,  and  that  the  sooner  he  was  out 
of  Jim's  way,  the  better  that  freely  speaking  person  would 
Uke  it.  So  he  said  quietly  : 

"  Jim,  I  see  that  I  am  not  welcome,  but  I  bear  you  no  ill 


SEVENOAKS.  233 

will.  Keep  me  to-night,  and  to-morrow  show  me  this  man's 
bones,  and  sign  a  certificate  of  the  statements  you  have  made 
to  me,  and  I  will  leave  you  at  once." 

The  woodsman  made  no  more  objection,  and  the  next 
morning,  after  breakfast,  the  three  men  went  together  and 
found  the  place  of  the  pauper's  burial.  It  took  but  a  few 
minutes  to  disinter  the  skeleton,  and,  after  a  silent  look  at  it, 
it  was  again  buried,  and  all  returned  to  the  cabin.  Then  the 
lawyer,  after  asking  further  questions,  drew  up  a  paper  certi 
fying  to  all  the  essential  facts  in  the  case,  and  Jim  signed  it. 

"Now,  how  be  ye  goin'  to  get  back  to  Sevenoaks?"  in 
quired  Jim. 

"  I  don't  know.  The  man  who  brought  me  in  is  not  to 
come  for  me  for  a  fortnight. ' ' 

"  Then  ye've  got  to  huff  it,"  responded  Jim. 

"It's  a  long  way." 

"Ye  can  do  it  as  fur  as  Mike's,  an'  he'll  be  glad  to  git 
back  some  o'  the  hundred  dollars  that  old  Belcher  got  out  of 
him." 

"  The  row  and  the  walk  will  be  too  much." 

"  I'll  take  ye  to  the  landing,"  said  Jim. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  you  for  the  job,"  responded  Yates. 

"An'  ef  ye  do,"  said  Jim,  "there'll  be  an  accident,  an' 
two  men'll  get  wet,  an'  one  on  'em'll  stan'  a  chance  to  be 
drownded." 

"  Well,  have  your  own  way,"  said  Yates. 

It  was  not  yet  noon,  and  Jim  hurried  off  his  visitor.  Yates 
bade  good-bye  to  Benedict,  jumped  into  Jim's  boat,  and  was 
soon  out  of  sight  down  the  stream.  The  boat  fairly  leaped 
through  the  water  under  Jim's  strong  and  steady  strokes,  and 
it  seemed  that  only  an  hour  had  passed  when  the  landing  was 
discovered. 

They  made  the  whole  distance  in  silence.  Jim,  sitting  at 
his  oars,  with  Yates  in  the  stern,  had  watched  the  lawyer  with 
a  puzzled  expression.  He  could  not  read  him.  The  man 
had  not  said  a  word  about  Benedict.  He  had  not  once  pro- 


234  SEVENOAKS. 

nounced  his  name.  He  was  evidently  amused  with  something, 
and  had  great  difficulty  in  suppressing  a  smile.  Again  and 
again  the  amused  expression  suffused  the  lawyer's  face,  and 
still,  by  an  effort  of  will,  it  was  smothered.  Jim  was  in  tor 
ture.  The  man  seemed  to  be  in  possession  of  some  great 
secret,  and  looked  as  if  he  only  waited  an  opportunity  be 
yond  observation  to  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"What  the  devil  ye  thinkin'  on?"  inquired  Jim  at  last. 

Yates  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  and  replied  coolly : 

"  I  was  thinking  how  well  Benedict  is  looking." 

Jim  stopped  rowing,  holding  his  oars  in  the  air.  He  was 
dumb.  His  face  grew  almost  livid,  and  his  hair  seemed  to 
rise  and  stand  straight  all  over  his  head.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  spring  upon  the  man  and  throttle  him,  but  a  moment's 
reflection  determined  him  upon  another  course.  He  let  his 
oars  drop  into  the  water,  and  then  took  up  the  rifle,  which  he 
always  carried  at  his  side.  Raising  it  to  his  eye,  he  said : 

"  Now,  Number  'leven,  come  an'  take  my  seat.  Ef  ye 
make  any  fuss,  I'll  tip  ye  into  the  river,  or  blow  yer  brains 
out.  Any  man  that  plays  traitor  with  Jim  Fenton,  gits  trai 
tor's  fare." 

Yates  saw  that  he  had  made  a  fatal  mistake,  and  that  it  was 
too  late  to  correct  it.  He  saw  that  Jim  was  dangerously  ex 
cited,  and  that  it  would  not  do  to  excite  him  further.  He 
therefore  rose,  and  with  feigned  pleasantry,  said  he  should  be 
very  glad  to  row  to  the  landing. 

Jim  passed  him  and  took  a  seat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat. 
Then,  as  Yates  took  up  the  oars,  Jim  raised  his  rifle,  and, 
pointing  it  directly  at  the  lawyer's  breast,  said  : 

"Now,  Sam  Yates,  turn  this  boat  round." 

Yates  was  surprised  in  turn,  bit  his  lips,  and  hesitated. 

"Turn  this  boat  round,  or  I'll  fix  ye  so't  I  can  see  through 
ye  plainer  nor  I  do  now." 

"  Surely,  Jim,  you  don't  mean  to  have  me  row  back.  I 
haven't  harmed  you." 

"Turn  this  boat  round,  quicker  nor  lightninV 


SEVENOAKS.  235 

"There,  it's  turned,"  said  Yates,  assuming  a  smile. 

"  Now  row  back  to  Number  Nine." 

"  Come,  Jim,"  said  Yates,  growing  pale  with  vexation  and 
apprehension,  "  this  fooling  has  gone  far  enough." 

"  Not  by  ten  mile,"  said  Jim, 

"You  surely  don't  mean  to  take  me  back.  You  have  no 
right  to  do  it.  I  can  prosecute  you  for  this." 

"  Not  if  I  put  a  bullet  through  re,  or  drown  ye." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  have  me  row  b<*ck  to  Number  Nine?" 

"  I  mean  to  have  you  row  back  to  Number  Nine,  or  go  to 
the  bottom  leakin',"  responded  Jim. 

Yates  thought  a  moment,  looked  angrily  at  the  determined 
man  before  him,  as  if  he  were  meditating  some  rash  experi 
ment,  and  then  dipped  his  oars  and  rowed  up-stream. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  Mr.  Benedict  late  in  the  after 
noon  to  see  Yates  slowly  rowing  toward  the  cabin,  and  land 
ing  under  cover  of  Jim's  rifle,  and  the  blackest  face  that  he 
had  ever  seen  above  his  good  friend's  shoulders. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

IN  WHICH    JIM  CONSTRUCTS  TWO    HAPPY  DAVIDS,   RAISES  HIS 
HOTEL,   AND    DISMISSES   SAM   YATES. 

WHEN  the  boat  touched  the  bank,  Jim,  still  with  his  rifle 
pointed  at  the  breast  of  Sam  Yates,  said  : 

"  Now  git  out,  an'  take  a  bee  line  for  the  shanty,  an'  see 
how  many  paces  ye  make  on't." 

Yates  was  badly  blown  by  his  row  of  ten  miles  on  the  river, 
and  could  hardly  stir  from  his  seat ;  but  Mr.  Benedict  helped 
him  up  the  bank,  and  then  Jim  followed  him  on  shore. 

Benedict  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  mingled  sur 
prise  and  consternation,  and  then  said  : 

"Jim,  what  does  this  mean?" 

"It  means,"  replied  Jim,  "that  Number  'leven,  an*  his 
name  is  Williams,  forgot  to  'tend  to  his  feelin's  over  old 
Tilden's  grave,  an'  I've  axed  'im  to  come  back  an'  use  up  his 
clean  hankerchers.  He  was  took  with  a  fit  o'  knowin'  some- 
thin',  too,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  see  if  I  can  cure  'im.  It's  a  new 
sort  o'  sickness  for  him,  an'  it  may  floor  'im." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  carrying  on  this  farce  any 
longer,"  said  Yates.  "  I  knew  you,  Mr.  Benedict,  soon  after 
arriving  here,  and  it  seems  that  you  recognized  me ;  and  now', 
here  is  my  hand.  I  never  meant  you  ill,  and  I  did  not  expect 
to  find  you  alive.  I  have  tried  my  best  to  make  you  out  a 
dead  man,  and  so  to  report  you ;  but  Jim  has  compelled  me  to 
come  back  and  make  sure  that  you  are  alive." 

"No,  I  didn't,"  responded  Jim.  "I  wanted  to  let  ye 
know  that  I'm  alive,  and  that  I  don't  'low  no  hired  cusses  to 

236 


SEVENOAKS.  237 

come  snoopin'  round  my  camp,  an'  goin'  off  with  a  haw-haw 
buttoned  up  in  their  jackets,  without  a  thrashin'." 

Benedict,  of  course,  stood  thunderstruck  and  irresolute. 
He  was  discovered  by  the  very  man  whom  his  old  persecutor 
had  sent  for  the  purpose.  He  had  felt  that  the  discovery 
would  be  made  sooner  or  later — intended,  indeed,  that  it 
should  be  made — but  he  was  not  ready. 

They  all  walked  to  the  cabin  in  moody  silence.  Jim  felt 
that  he  had  been  hasty,  and  was  very  strongly  inclined  to  be 
lieve  in  the  sincerity  of  Yates ;  but  he  knew  it  was  safe  to  be 
on  his  guard  with  any  man  who  was  in  the  employ  of  Mr. 
Belcher.  Turk  saw  there  was  trouble,  and  whined  around  his 
master,  as  if  inquiring  whether  there  was  anything  that  ha 
could  do  to  bring  matters  to  an  adjustment. 

"  No,  Turk  ;  he's  my  game,"  said  Jim.  "  Ye  couldn't  eat 
'im  no  more  nor  ye  could  a  muss-rat." 

There  were  just  three  seats  in  the  cabin — two  camp-stools 
and  a  chest. 

"That's  the  seat  for  ye,"  said  Jim  to  Yates,  pointing  to 
the  chest.  "Jest  plant  yerself  thar.  Thar's  somethin'  in 
chat  'ere  chest  as'll  make  ye  tell  the  truth." 

Yates  looked  at  the  chest  and  hesitated. 

"  It  ain't  powder,"  said  Jim,  "  but  it'll  blow  ye  worse  nor 
powder,  if  ye  don't  tell  the  truth." 

Yates  sat  down.  He  had  not  appreciated  the  anxiety  of 
Benedict  to  escape  discovery,  or  he  would  not  have  been  so 
silly  as  to  bruit  his  knowledge  until  he  had  left  the  woods.  He 
felt  ashamed  of  his  indiscretion,  but,  as  he  knew  that  his  mo 
tives  were  good,  he  could  not  but  feel  that  he  had  been  out 
raged. 

"Jim,  you  have  abused  me,"  said  he.  "You  have  mis 
understood  me,  and  that  is  the  only  apology  that  you  can 
make  for  your  discourtesy.  I  was  a  fool  to  tell  you  what  I 
knew,  but  you  had  no  right  to  serve  me  as  you  have  served 
me." 

"P'raps  I  hadn't,"  responded  Jim,  doubtfully. 


238  SEVENOAKS. 

Yates  went  on : 

"  I  have  never  intended  to  play  you  a  trick.  It  may  be  a 
base  thing  for  me  to  do,  but  I  intended  to  deceive  Mr.  Bel 
cher.  He  is  a  man  to  whom  I  owe  no  good  will.  He  has 
always  treated  me  like  a  dog,  and  he  will  continue  the  treat 
ment  so  long  as  I  have  anything  to  do  with  him ;  but  he  found 
me  when  I  was  very  low,  and  he  has  furnished  me  with  the 
money  that  has  made  it  possible  for  me  to  redeem  myself. 
Believe  me,  the  finding  of  Mr.  Benedict  was  the  most  un 
welcome  discovery  I  ever  made. ' ' 

"  Ye  talk  reasonable,"  said  Jim  ;  "  but  how  be  I  goin'  to 
know  that  ye're  tellin'  the  truth?  " 

"You  cannot  know,"  replied  Yates.  "  The  circumstances 
are  all  against  me,  but  you  will  be  obliged  to  trust  me.  You 
are  not  going  to  kill  me ;  you  are  not  going  to  harm  me ;  for 
you  would  gain  nothing  by  getting  my  ill  will.  I  forgive 
your  indignities,  for  it  was  natural  for  you  to  be  provoked, 
and  I  provoked  you  needlessly — childishly,  in  fact ;  but  after 
what  I  have  said,  anything  further  in  that  line  will  not  be 
borne." 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  lick  ye  now,"  said  Jim,  on  hearing 
himself  defied. 

"  You  would  be  a  fool  to  undertake  it,"  said  Yates. 

"Well,  what  be  ye  goin'  to  tell  old  Belcher,  anyway?" 
inquired  Jim. 

"  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  tell  him  anything.  I  have  no  in 
tention  of  telling  him  that  Mr.  Benedict  is  here,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  tell  him  a  lie.  I  have  intended  to  tell  him  that  in  all 
my  journey  to  Sevenoaks  I  did  not  find  the  object  of  my 
search,  and  that  Jim  Fenton  declared  that  but  one  pauper  had 
ever  come  into  the  woods  and  died  there." 

"  That's  the  truth,"  said  Jim.  "  Benedict  ain't  no  pauper, 
nor  hain't  been  since  he  left  the  poor-house." 

"  If  he  knows  about  old  Tilden,"  said  Yates,  "and  I'm 
afraid  he  does,  he'll  know  that  I'm  on  the  wrong  scent.  If  he 
doesn't  know  about  him,  he'll  naturally  conclude  that  the 


SEVENOAKS.  239 

dead  man  was  Mr.  Benedict.  That  will  answer  his  pur 
pose." 

"  Old  Belcher  ain't  no  fool,"  said  Jim. 

"  Well,"  said  Yates,  "  why  doesn't  Mr.  Benedict  come  out 
like  a  man  and  claim  his  rights  ?  That  would  relieve  me,  and 
settle  all  the  difficulties  of  the  case. ' ' 

Benedict  had  nothing  to  say  for  this,  for  there  was  what  he 
felt  to  be  a  just  reproach  in  it. 

"It's  the  way  he's  made,"  replied  Jim — " leastways,  partly. 
When  a  man's  ben  hauled  through  hell  by  the  har,  it  takes  'im 
a  few  days  to  git  over  bein'  dizzy  an'  find  his  legs  ag'in ;  an' 
when  a  man  sells  himself  to  old  Belcher,  he  mustn't  squawk 
an'  try  to  git  another  feller  to  help  'im  out  of  'is  bargain.  Ye 
got  into't,  an'  ye  must  git  out  on't  the  best  way  ye  can." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do?  "  inquired  Yates. 

"I  want  to  have  ye  sw'ar,  an'  sign  a  Happy  David." 

"A  what?" 

"A  Happy  David.  Ye  ain't  no  lawyer  if  ye  don't  know 
what  a  Happy  David  is,  and  can't  make  one." 

Yates  recognized,  with  a  smile,  the  nature  of  the  instrument 
disguised  in  Jim's  pronunciation  and  conception,  and  inquired: 

"  What  would  you  have  me  to  swear  to  ?  " 

"To  what  I  tell  ye." 

"Very  well.  I  have  pen  and  paper  with  me,  and  am  ready 
to  write.  Whether  I  will  sign  the  paper  will  depend  upon  its 
contents." 

"Be  ye  ready?" 

"Yes." 

"  Here  ye  have  it,  then.  'I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'welp  me! 
that  I  hain't  seen  no  pauper,  in  no  woods,  with  his  name  as 
Benedict.'  " 

Jim  paused,  and  Yates,  having  completed  the  sentence, 
waited.  Then  Jim  muttered  to  himself: 

"  With  his  name  as  Benedict — with  his  name  is  Benedict— 
with  his  name  was  Benedict." 

Then  with  a  puzzled  look,  he  said  : 


240  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Yates,  can't  ye  doctor  that  a  little?  " 

"  Whose  name  was  Benedict,"  suggested  Yates. 

"  Whose  name  was  Benedict,"  continued  Jim.  "  Now  read 
it  over,  as  fur  as  ye've  got." 

"  '  I  solemnly  swear  that  I  have  seen  no  pauper  in  the 
woods  whose  name  was  Benedict.'  " 

"  Now  look  a  here,  Sam  Yates  !  That  sort  o'  thing  won't  do. 
Stop  them  tricks.  Ye  don't  know  me,  an'  ye  don't  know 
whar  ye're  settin'  if  you  think  that'll  go  down." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  I  telled  ye  that  Benedict  was  no  pauper,  an'  ye  say  that 
ye've  seen  no  pauper  whose  name  was  Benedict.  That's  jest 
tellin'  that  he's  here.  Oh,  ye  can't  come  that  game  !  Now 
begin  agin,  an'  write  jest  as  I  give  it  to  ye.  '  I  solem-ny 
sw'ar,  s'welp  me  !  that  I  hain't  seen  no  pauper,  in  no  woods, 
whose  name  was  Benedict.'  " 

"  Done,"  said  Yates,  "  but  it  isn't  grammar." 

"  Hang  the  grammar  !"  responded  Jim  ;  "what  I  want  is 
sense.  Now  jine  this  on  :  'An'  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'welp  me! 
that  I  won't  blow  on  Benedict,  as  isn't  a  pauper — no  more 
nor  Jim  Fenton  is — an'  if  so  be  as  I  do  blow  on  Benedict — 
I  give  Jim  Fenton  free  liberty,  out  and  out — to  lick  me — 
without  goin'  to  lor — but  takin'  the  privlidge  of  self-de 
fense.'  " 

Jim  thought  a  moment.    He  had  wrought  out  a  large  phrase. 

"I  guess,"  said  he,  "  that  covers  the  thing.  Ye  under 
stand,  don't  ye,  Yates,  about  the  privlidge  of  self-defense?" 

"You  mean  that  I  may  defend  myself  if  I  can,  don't  you?" 

"Yes.  With  the  privlidge  of  self-defense.  That's  fair, 
an'  I'd  give  it  to  a  painter.  Now  read  it  all  over." 

Jim  put  his  head  down  between  his  knees,  the  better  to 
measure  every  word,  while  Yates  read  the  complete  document. 
Then  Jim  took  the  paper,  and,  handing  it  to  Benedict,  re 
quested  him  to  see  if  it  had  been  read  correctly.  Assured 
that  it  was  all  right,  Jim  turned  his  eyes  severely  on  Yates, 
and  said : 


SEVENOAKS.  241 

"  Sam  Yates,  do  ye  s'pose  ye've  any  idee  what  it  is  to  be 
licked  by  Jim  Fenton  ?  Do  ye  know  what  ye' re  sw'arin'  to  ? 
Do  ye  reelize  that  I  wouldn't  leave  enough  on  ye  to  pay  foi 
havin'  a  funeral?" 

Yates  laughed,  and  said  that  he  believed  he  understood  the 
nature  of  an  oath. 

"  Then  sign  yer  Happy  David,"  said  Jim. 

Yates  wrote  his  name,  and  passed  the  paper  into  Jim's 
hands. 

"  Now,"  said  Jim,  with  an  expression  of  triumph  on  his 
face,  "  I  s'pose  ye  don't  know  that  ye've  be'n  settin'  on  a 
Bible  ;  but  it's  right  under  ye,  in  that  chest,  an'  it's  hearn 
and  seen  the  whole  thing.  If  ye  don't  stand  by  yer  Happy 
David,  there'll  be  somethin'  worse  nor  Jim  Fenton  arter  ye, 
an'  when  that  comes,  ye  can  jest  shet  yer  eyes,  and  gi'en  it 
up." 

This  was  too  much  for  both  Yates  and  Benedict.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  burst  into  a  laugh.  But 
Jim  was  in  earnest,  and  not  a  smile  crossed  his  rough  face. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  want  to  do  a  little  sw'arin'  myself, 
and  I  want  ye  to  write  it." 

Yates  resumed  his  pen,  and  declared  himself  to  be  in  readi 
ness. 

"I  solem-ny  sw'ar,"  Jim  began,  "s'welp  me  !  that  I  will 
lick  Sam  Yates — as  is  a  lawyer — with  the  privlidge  of  self-de 
fense — if  he  ever  blows  on  Benedict — as  is  not  a  pauper — no 
more  nor  Jim  Fenton  is — an'  I  solem-ny  sw'ar,  s'welp  me  ! 
that  I'll  foller  'im  till  I  find  'im,  an'  lick  'im — with  the  priv 
lidge  of  self-defense." 

Jim  would  have  been  glad  to  work  in  the  last  phrase  again, 
but  he  seemed  to  have  covered  the  whole  ground,  and  so  in 
quired  whether  Yates  had  got  it  all  down. 

Yates  replied  that  he  had. 

"I'm  a  goin'  to  sign  that,  an*  ye  can  take  it  along  with  ye. 
Swap  seats." 

Yates  rose,  and  Jim  seated  himself  upon  the  chest. 

II 


242  SEVENOAKS. 

"  I'm  a  goin'  to  sign  this,  settin'  over  the  Bible.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  take  no  advantage  on  ye.  Now  we're  squar',"  said 
he,  as  he  blazoned  the  document  with  his  coarse  and  clumsy 
sign -manual.  "  Put  that  in  yer  pocket,  an'  keep  it  for  five 
year." 

"Is  the  business  all  settled  ?"  inquired  Yates. 

"Clean,"  replied  Jim. 

"When  am  I  to  have  the  liberty  to  go  out  of  the  woods?" 

"  Ye  ain't  goin'  out  o'  the  woods  for  a  fortnight.  Ye're  a 
goin'  to  stay  here,  an'  have  the  best  fishin'  ye  ever  had  in  yer 
life.  It'll  do  ye  good,  an'  ye  can  go  out  when  yer  man  comes 
arter  ye.  Ye  can  stay  to  the  raisin',  an'  gi'en  us  a  little  lift 
with  the  other  fellers  that's  comin'.  Ye'll  be  as  strong  as  a 
hoss  when  ye  go  out." 

An  announcement  more  welcome  than  this  could  not  have 
been  made  to  Sam  Yates ;  and  now  that  there  was  no  secrecy 
between  them,  and  confidence  was  restored,  he  looked  for 
ward  to  a  fortnight  of  enjoyment.  He  laid  aside  his  coat, 
and,  as  far  as  possible,  reduced  his  dress  to  the  requirements 
of  camp  life.  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict  were  very  busy,  so  that 
he  was  obliged  to  find  his  way  alone,  but  Jim  lent  him  his 
fishing-tackle,  and  taught  him  how  to  use  it ;  and,  as  he  was 
an  apt  pupil,  he  was  soon  able  to  furnish  more  fish  to  the  camp 
than  could  be  used. 

Yates  had  many  a  long  talk  with  Benedict,  and  the  two 
men  found  many  points  of  sympathy,  around  which  they 
cemented  a  lasting  friendship.  Both,  though  in  different  ways, 
had  been  very  low  down  in  the  valley  of  helpless  misfortune; 
both  had  been  the  subjects  of  Mr.  Belcher's  brutal  will ;  and 
both  had  the  promise  of  a  better  life  before  them,  which  it 
would  be  necessary  to  achieve  in  opposition  to  that  will. 
Benedict  was  strengthened  by  this  sympathy,  and  became 
able  to  entertain  plans  for  the  assertion  and  maintenance  of 
his  rights. 

When  Yates  had  been  at  the  camp  for  a  week,  and  had 
taken  on  the  color  and  the  manner  of  a  woodsman,  there  came 


SEVEN  OAKS.  243 

one  night  to  Number  Nine  a  dozen  men,  to  assist  in  the  raising 
of  Jim's  hotel.  They  were  from  the  mill  where  he  had  pur 
chased  his  lumber,  and  numbered  several  neighbors  besides, 
including  Mike  Conlin.  They  came  up  the  old  "  tote-road" 
by  the  river  side,  and  a  herd  of  buffaloes  on  a  stampede  could 
hardly  have  made  more  noise.  They  were  a  rough,  merry 
set,  and  Jim  had  all  he  could  do  to  feed  them.  Luckily, 
trout  were  in  abundant  supply,  and  they  supped  like  kings, 
and  slept  on  the  ground.  The  following  day  was  one  of  the 
severest  labor,  but  when  it  closed,  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
timber  had  been  brought  and  put  up,  and  when  the  second 
day  ended,  all  the  timbers  were  in  their  place,  including  those 
which  defined  the  outlines  of  Jim's  "cupalo." 

When  the  frame  was  at  last  complete,  the  weary  men  retired 
to  a  convenient  distance  to  look  it  over;  and  then  they 
emphasized  their  approval  of  the  structure  by  three  rousing 
cheers. 

"  Be  gorry,  Jim,  ye  must  make  us  a  spache,"  said  Mike 
Conlin.  "  Ye've  plenty  iv  blarney  ;  now  out  wid  it." 

But  Jim  was  sober.  He  was  awed  by  the  magnitude  of  his 
enterprise.  There  was  the  building  in  open  outline.  There 
was  no  going  back.  For  better  or  for  worse,  it  held  his  destiny, 
and  not  only  his,  but  that  of  one  other — perhaps  of  others  still- 

"A  speech  !  a  speech  !"  came  from  a  dozen  tongues. 

"Boys,"  said  Jim,  "there's  no  more  talk  in  me  now  nor 
there  is  in  one  o'  them  chips.  I  don't  seem  to  have  no  vent. 
I'm  full,  but  it  don't  run.  If  I  could  stick  a  gimblet  in 
somewhere,  as  if  I  was  a  cider-barrel,  I  could  gi'en  ye  enough; 
but  I  ain't  no  barrel,  an'  a  gimblet  ain't  no  use.  There's  a 
man  here  as  can  talk.  That's  his  trade,  an'  if  he'll  say  what 
I  ought  to  say,  I  shall  be  obleeged  to  'im.  Yates  is  a  lawyer, 
an'  it's  his  business  to  talk  for  other  folks,  an'  I  hope  he'll 
talk  forme." 

"  Yates  !  Yates  !"  arose  on  all  sides. 

Yates  was  at  home  in  any  performance  of  this  kind,  and, 
mounting  a  low  stump,  said : 


244  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Boys,  Jim  wants  me  to  thank  you  for  the  great  service 
you've  rendered  him.  You  have  come  a  long  distance  to  do 
a  neighborly  deed,  and  that  deed  has  been  generously  com 
pleted.  Here,  in  these  forest  shades,  you  have  reared  a  monu 
ment  to  human  civilization.  In  these  old  woods  you  have 
built  a  temple  to  the  American  household  gods.  The  savage 
beasts  of  the  wilderness  will  fly  from  it,  and  the  birds  will 
gather  around  it.  The  winter  will  be  the  warmer  for  the  fire 
that  will  burn  within  it,  and  the  spring  will  come  earlier  in 
prospect  of  a  better  welcome.  The  river  that  washes  its  feet 
"will  be  more  musical  in  its  flow,  because  finer  ears  will  be  lis 
tening.  The  denizens  of  the  great  city  will  come  here,  year 
after  year,  to  renew  their  wasted  strength,  and  they  will  carry 
back  with  them  the  sweetest  memories  of  these  pure  solitudes. 

"  To  build  a  human  home,  where  woman  lives  and  little 
children  open  their  eyes  upon  life,  and  grow  up  and  marry 
and  die — a  home  full  of  love  and  toil,  of  pleasure  and  hope 
and  hospitality,  is  to  do  the  finest  thing  that  a  man  can  do. 
I  congratulate  you  on  what  you  have  done  for  Jim,  and  what 
so  nobly  you  have  done  for  yourselves.  Your  whole  life  will 
be  sweeter  for  this  service,  and  when  you  think  of  a  lovely 
woman  presiding  over  this  house,  and  of  all  the  comfort  it 
»vill  be  to  the  gentle  folk  that  will  fill  it  rull.  you  will  be  glad 
that  you  have  had  a  hand  in  it." 

Yates  made  his  bow  and  stepped  down.  His  auditors  all 
stood  for  a  moment,  under  an  impression  that  they  were  in 
church  and  had  heard  a  sermon.  Their  work  had  been  s<? 
idealized  for  them — it  had  been  endowed  with  so  much  mean- 
mg — it  seemed  so  different  from  an  ordinary  "  raising  "— • 
that  they  lost,  momentarily,  the  consciousness  of  their  own 
roughness  and  the  homeliness  of  their  surroundings. 

"Be  gorry  !"  exclaimed  Mike,  who  was  the  first  to  break 
the  silence,  "I'd  'a'  gi'en  a  dollar  if  me  owld  woman  could 
'a'  heard  that.  Divil  a  bit  does  she  know  what  I've  done  for 
her.  I  didn't  know  mesilf  what  a  purty  thing  it  was  whin  I 
built  me  house.  It's  betther  nor  goin'  to  the  church,  bedad." 


SEVEN  OAKS.  245 

Three  cheers  were  then  given  to  Yates  and  three  to  Jim, 
and,  the  spell  once  dissolved,  they  went  noisily  back  to  the 
cabin  and  their  supper. 

That  evening  Jim  was  very  silent.  When  they  were  about 
lying  down  for  the  night,  he  took  his  blankets,  reached  into 
the  chest,  and  withdrew  something  that  he  found  there  and 
immediately  hid  from  sight,  and  said  that  he  was  going  to 
sleep  in  his  house.  The  moon  was  rising  from  behind  the 
U'ees  when  he  emerged  from  his  cabin.  He  looked  up  at  the 
tall  skeleton  of  his  future  home,  then  approached  it,  and 
swinging  himself  from  beam  to  beam,  did  not  pause  until  he  had 
reached  the  cupola.  Boards  had  been  placed  across  it  for  the 
convenience  of  the  framers,  and  on  these  Jim  threw  his  blankets. 
Under  the  little  package  that  was  to  serve  as  his  pillow  he  laid 
his  Bible,  and  then,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  stars,  his  heart 
tender  with  the  thoughts  of  the  woman  for  whom  he  was  rearing 
a  home,  and  his  mind  oppressed  with  the  greatness  of  his  un 
dertaking,  he  lay  a  long  time  in  a  waking  dream.  "  If  so  b^ 
He  cares,"  said  Jim  to  himself — "if  so  be  He  cares  for  a 
little  buildin'  as  don't  make  no  show  'longside  o'  His  doinV 
up  thar  an'  down  here,  I  hope  He  sees  that  I've  got  this  Bibk 
under  my  head,  an*  knows  what  I  mean  by  it.  I  hope  th* 
thing  '11  strike  'im  favorable,  an1  that  He  knows,  if  He  cares, 
that  I'm  obleeged  to  'im." 

At  last,  slumber  came  to  Jim — the  slumber  of  the  toilery 
and  early  the  next  morning  he  was  busy  in  feeding  his  helpers, 
who  had  a  long  day's  walk  before  them.  When,  at  last,  they 
were  all  ferried  over  the  river,  and  had  started  on  their  home 
ward  way,  Jim  ascended  to  the  cupola  again,  and  waved  his 
bandanna  in  farewell. 

Two  days  afterward,  Sam  Yates  left  his  host,  and  rowed 
himself  down  to  the  landing  in  the  same  canoe  by  which  he 
had  reached  Number  Nine.  He  found  his  conveyance  wait 
ing,  according  to  arrangement,  and  before  night  was  housed 
among  his  friends  at  Sevenoaks. 

While  he  had  been  absent  in  the  woods,  there  had  been  a 


246  SEVENOAKS. 

conference  among  his  relatives  and  the  principal  men  of  the 
town,  which  had  resulted  in  the  determination  to  keep  him  in 
Sevenoaks,  if  possible,  in  the  practice  of  his  profession. 

To  Yates,  the  proposition  was  the  opening  of  a  door  into 
safety  and  peace.  To  be  among  those  who  loved  him,  and 
had  a  certain  pride  in  him  ;  to  be  released  from  his  service  to 
Mr.  Belcher,  which  he  felt  could  go  no  farther  without  in 
volving  him  in  crime  and  dishonor ;  to  be  sustained  in  his 
good  resolutions  by  the  sympathy  of  friends,  and  the  absence 
of  his  city  companions  and  temptations,  gave  him  the  promise 
of  perfect  reformation,  and  a  life  of  modest  prosperity  and 
genuine  self-respect. 

He  took  but  little  time  in  coming  to  his  conclusion,  and 
his  first  business  was  to  report  to  Mr.  Belcher  by  letter.  He 
informed  that  gentleman  that  he  had  concluded  to  remain  in 
Sevenoaks ;  reported  all  his  investigations  on  his  way  thither 
from  New  York;  inclosed  Jim's  statement  concerning  the 
death  of  a  pauper  in  the  woods ;  gave  an  account  of  the  dis- 
interment  of  the  pauper's  bones  in  his  presence;  inclosed  the 
money  unused  in  expenses  and  wages,  and,  with  thanks  for 
what  Mr.  Belcher  had  done  in  helping  him  to  a  reform,  closed 
his  missive  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  the  impres'sion  that  he 
expected  and  desired  no  further  communication. 

Great  was  Mr.  Belcher's  indignation  when  he  received  this 
letter.  He  had  not  finished  with  Yates.  He  had  anticipated 
exactly  this  result  from  the  investigations.  He  knew  about 
old  Tilden,  for  Buffum  had  told  him ;  and  he  did  not  doubt 
that  Jim  had  exhibited  to  Yates  the  old  man's  bones.  He 
believed  that  Benedict  was  dead,  but  he  did  not  know.  It 
would  be  necessary,  therefore,  to  prepare  a  document  that 
would  be  good  in  any  event. 

If  the  reader  remembers  the  opening  chapter  of  this  story, 
he  will  recall  the  statement  of  Miss  Butterworth,  that  Mr. 
Belcher  had  followed  Benedict  to  the  asylum  to  procure  his 
signature  to  a  paper.  This  paper,  drawn  up  in  legal  form, 
had  been  preserved,  for  Mr.  Belcher  was  a  methodical,  busi- 


SEVEN  OAKS.  247 

nsss  matt  ;  and  when  he  had  finished  reading  Yates's  letter, 
and  had  exhausted  his  expletives  after  his  usual  manner,  he 
opened  a  drawer,  and,  extracting  the  paper,  read  it  through. 
It  was  more  than  six  years  old,  and  bore  its  date,  and  the 
marks  of  its  age.  All  it  needed  was  the  proper  signatures. 

He  knew  that  he  could  trust  Yates  no  longer.  He  kne\vv 
too,  that  he  could  not  forward  his  own  ends  by  appearing  to 
be  displeased.  The  reply  which  Yates  received  was  one  that 
astonished  him  by  its  mildness,  its  expression  of  satisfaction 
with  his  faithful  labor,  and  its  record  of  good  wishes.  Now 
that  he  was  upon  the  spot,  Mr.  Yates  could  still  serve  him, 
both  in  a  friendly  and  in  a  professional  way.  The  first  ser- 
irice  he  could  render  him  was  to  forward  to  him  autograph 
tetters  from  the  hands  of  two  men  deceased.  He  wished  to 
verify  the  signatures  of  these  men,  he  said,  but  as  they  were 
both  dead,  he,  of  course,  could  not  apply  to  them. 

Yates  did  not  doubt  that  there  was  mischief  in  this  request. 
He  guessed  what  it  was,  and  he  kept  the  letter ;  but  after  a 
few  days  he  secured  the  desired  autographs,  and  forwarded 
them  to  Mr.  Belcher,  who  filed  them  away  with  the  document 
above  referred  to.  After  that,  the  great  proprietor,  as  a 
relief  from  the  severe  pursuits  of  his  life,  amused  himself  by 
experiments  with  inks  and  pens,  and  pencils,  and  with  writing 
in  a  hand  not  his  own,  the  names  of  "Nicholas  Johnson" 
»nr»  "lames  Raxnsev." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

IN  WHICH   MRS.    DILLINGHAM    MAKES   SOME   IMPORTANT   DISCOVE* 
RIES,    BUT   FAILS   TO   REVEAL  THEM   TO   THE   READER. 

MRS.  DILLINGHAM  was  walking  back  and  forth  alone  through 
her  long  drawing-room.  She  was  revolving  in  her  mind  a 
compliment,  breathed  into  her  ear  by  her  friend  Mrs.  Talbot 
that  day.  Mrs.  Talbot  had  heard  from  the  mouth  of  one  of 
Mrs.  Dillingham's  admirers  the  statement,  confirmed  with  a 
hearty,  good-natured  oath,  that  he  considered  the  fascinating 
widow  "  the  best  groomed  woman  in  New  York." 

The  compliment  conveyed  a  certain  intimation  which  was 
not  pleasant  for  her  to  entertain.  She  was  indebted  to  her 
skill  in  self- "grooming"  for  the  preservation  of  her  youthful 
appearance.  She  had  been  conscious  of  this,  but  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  have  the  fact  detected  by  her  friends.  Neither 
was  it  pleasant  to  have  it  bruited  in  society,  and  reported  to 
her  by  one  who  rejoiced  in  the  delicacy  of  the  arrow  which, 
feathered  by  friendship,  she  had  been  able  to  plant  in  the 
widow's  breast. 

She  walked  to  her  mirror  and  looked  at  herself.  There 
were  the  fine,  familiar  outlines  of  face  and  figure;  there 
A^ere  the  same  splendid  eyes;  but  a  certain  charm  beyond  the 
power  of  "grooming"  to  restore  was  gone.  An  incipient, 
almost  invisible,  brood  of  wrinkles  was  gathering  about  her 
eyes ;  there  was  a  loss  of  freshness  of  complexion,  and  an  ex 
pression  of  weariness  and  age,  which,  in  the  repose  of  reflec 
tion  and  inquisition,  almost  startled  her. 

Her  youth  was  gone,    and,   with    it,    the    most    potent 

248 


SEVENOAKS.  34" 

charms  of  her  person.  She  was  hated  and  suspected  by  her 
own  sex,  and  sought  by  men  for  no  reason  honorable  either  to 
her  or  to  them.  She  saw  that  it  was  all,  at  no  distant  day,  to 
have  an  end,  and  that  when  the  end  should  come,  her  life 
would  practically  be  closed.  When  the  means  by  which  she 
had  held  so  many  men  in  her  power  were  exhausted,  her  power 
would  cease.  Into  the  blackness  of  that  coming  night  she 
could  not  bear  to  look.  It  was  full  of  hate,  and  disappoint 
ment,  and  despair.  She  knew  that  there  was  a  taint  upon  her — 
the  taint  that  comes  to  every  woman,  as  certainly  as  death,  who 
patently  and  purposely  addresses,  through  her  person,  the  sen 
suous  element  in  men.  It  was  not  enough  for  her  to  remember 
that  she  despised  the  passion  she  excited,  and  contemned  the 
men  whom  she  fascinated.  She  knew  it  was  better  to  lead 
even  a  swine  by  a  golden  chain  than  by  the  ears. 

She  reviewed  her  relations  to  Mr.  Belcher.  That  strong, 
harsh,  brutal  man,  lost  alike  to  conscience  and  honor,  was  in 
her  hands.  What  should  she  do  with  him  ?  He  was  becom 
ing  troublesome.  He  was  not  so  easily  managed  as  the  most 
of  her  victims.  She  knew  that,  in  his  heart,  he  was  carrying 
the  hope  that  some  time  in  the  future,  in  some  way,  she 
would  become  his ;  that  she  had  but  to  lift  her  finger  to  make 
the  Palgrave  mansion  so  horrible  a  hell  that  the  wife  and 
mother  would  fly  from  it  in  indignant  despair.  She  had  nc 
intention  of  doing  this.  She  wished  for  no  more  intimate 
relation  with  her  victim  than  she  had  already  established. 

There  was  one  thing  in  which  Mr.  Belcher  had  offended  and 
humiliated  her.  He  had  treated  her  as  if  he  had  fascinated 
her.  In  his  stupid  vanity,  he  had  fancied  that  his  own  per 
sonal  attractions  "had  won  her  heart  and  her  allegiance,  and 
that  she,  and  not  himself,  was  the  victim.  He  had  tried  to 
use  her  in  the  accomplishment  of  outside  purposes ;  to  make 
a  tool  of  her  in  carrying  forward  his  mercenary  or  knavish 
ends.  Other  men  had  striven  to  hide  their  unlovely  affairs 
from  her,  but  the  new  lover  had  exposed  his,  and  claimed  her 
assistance  in  carrying  them  forward.  This  was  a  degradation 

IT* 


250  SEVENOAKS. 

that  she  could  not  submit  to.    It  did  not  flatter  her,  or  minis* 
ter  to  her  self-respect. 

Again  and  again  had  Mr.  Belcher  urged  her  to  get  the  little 
Sevenoaks  pauper  into  her  confidence,  and  to  ascertain 
whether  his  father  were  still  living.  She  did  not  doubt  that 
his  fear  of  a  man  so  poor  and  powerless  as  the  child's  father 
must  be,  was  based  in  conscious  knavery ;  and  to  be  put  to 
the  use  of  deceiving  a  lad  whose  smile  of  affectionate  admira* 
tion  was  one  of  the  sweetest  visions  of  her  daily  life,  disgusted 
and  angered  her.  The  thought,  in  any  man's  mind,  that  she 
could  be  so  base,  in  consideration  of  a  guilty  affection  for  him, 
as  to  betray  the  confidence  of  an  innocent  child  on  his  be 
half,  disgraced  and  degraded  her. 

And  still  she  walked  back  and  forth  in  her  drawing-room. 
Her  thoughts  were  uneasy  and  unhappy ;  there  was  no  lov 
in  her  life.     That  life  was  leading  to  no  satisfactory  consum 
mation.     How  could  it  be  changed  ?     What  could  she  do  ? 

She  raised  her  eyes,  looked  across  the  street,  and  there  saw, 
loitering  along  and  casting  furtive  glances  at  her  window,  the 
very  lad  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking.  He  had  sought 
jind  waited  for  her  recognition,  and  instead  of  receiving  it  in 
the  usual  way,  saw  a  beckoning  finger.  He  waited  a  moment, 
to  be  sure  that  he  had  not  misunderstood  the  sign,  and  then, 
when  it  was  repeated,  crossed  over,  and  stood  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Dillingham  admitted  the  boy,  then  called  the  servant, 
and  told  him  that,  while  the  lad  remained,  she  would  not  be 
at  home  to  any  one.  As  soon  as  the  pair  were  in  the  drawing- 
room  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  lad,  warming  his  heart  with  a 
smile  so  sweet,  and  a  manner  so  cordial  and  gracious,  that  he 
could  not  have  told  whether  his  soul  was  his  own  or  hers. 

She  led  him  to  her  seat,  giving  him  none,  but  sitting  with 
her  arm  around  him,  as  he  stood  at  her  side. 

"  You  are  my  little  lover,  aren't  you?"  she  said,  with  an 
embrace. 

"  Not  so  very  little  !"  responded  Harry,  with  a  flush. 

"  Well,  you  love  me,  don't  you  ?" 


SEVENOAKS.  251 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  replied  he,  looking  smilingly  into  her 
eyes. 

"  You  are  a  rogue,  sir." 

"I'm  not  a  bad  rogue." 

"Kiss  me." 

Harry  put  his  arms  around  Mrs.  Dillingham's  neck  and 
kissed  her,  and  received  a  long,  passionate  embrace  in  return, 
in  which  her  starved  heart  expressed  the  best  of  its  powerful 
nature. 

Nor  clouds  nor  low-born  vapors  drop  the  dew.  It  onty 
gathers  under  a  pure  heaven  and  the  tender  eyes  of  stars. 
Mrs.  Dillingham  had  always  held  a  heart  that  could  respond 
to  the  touch  of  a  child.  It  was  dark,  its  ways  were  crooked, 
it  was  not  a  happy  heart,  but  for  the  moment  her  whole  nature 
was  flooded  with  a  tender  passion.  A  flash  of  lightning  from 
heaven  makes  the  darkest  night  its  own,  and  gilds  with 
glory  the  uncouth  shapes  that  grope  and  crawl  beneath  its 
cover. 

•''And  your  name  is  Harry?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  about  yourself?" 

Harry  hesitated.  He  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  do  it. 
He  had  received  imperative  commands  not  to  tell  anybody 
about  himself;  but  his  temptation  to  yield  to  the  beautiful 
lady's  wishes  was  great,  for  he  was  heart-starved  like  herself. 
Mrs.  Balfour  was  kind,  even  affectionate,  but  he  felt  that  he 
iiad  never  filled  the  place  in  her  heart  of  the  boy  she  had  lost. 
She  did  not  take  him  into  her  embrace,  and  lavish  caresses 
upon  him.  He  had  hungered  for  just  this,  and  the  impulse 
to  show  the  whole  of  his  heart  and  life  to  Mrs.  Dillingham 
was  irresistible. 

"If  you'll  never  tell." 

"I  will  never  tell,  Harry." 

4 '  Never,  never  tell  ?' ' 

"Never." 

"You  are  Mr.  Belcher's  friend,  aren't  you?" 


252  SEVENOAKS. 

"I  know  Mr.  Belcher." 

"  If  Mr.  Belcher  should  tell  you  that  he  would  kill  you  if 
you  didn't  tell,  what  would  you  do?" 

"I  should  call  the  police,"  responded  Mrs.  Dillingham, 
with  a  smile. 

Then  Harry,  in  a  simple,  graphic  way,  told  her  all  about 
the  hard,  wretched  life  in  Sevenoaks,  the  death  of  his  mother, 
the  insanity  of  his  father,  the  life  in  the  poor-house,  the 
escape,  the  recovery  of  his  father's  health,  his  present  home, 
and  the  occasion  of  his  own  removal  to  New  York.  The  nar 
rative  was  so  wonderful,  so  full  of  pathos,  so  tragic,  so  out  of 
all  proportion  in  its  revelation  of  wretchedness  to  the  little 
life  at  her  side,  that  the  lady  was  dumb.  Unconsciously  to  her 
self — almost  unconsciously  to  the  boy — her  arms  closed  around 
him,  and  she  lifted  him  into  her  lap.  There,  with  his  head 
against  her  breast,  he  concluded  his  story ;  and  there  were 
tears  upon  his  hair,  rained  from  the  eyes  that  bent  above  him. 
They  sat  for  a  long  minute  in  silence.  Then  the  lady,  to 
keep  herself  from  bursting  into  hysterical  tears,  kissed  Harry 
again  and  again,  exclaiming  : 

"  My  poor,  dear  boy!  My  dear,  dear  child!  And  Mr. 
Belcher  could  have  helped  it  all !  Curse  him  ! ' ' 

The  lad  jumped  from  her  arms  as  if  he  had  received  the 
thrust  of  a  dagger,  and  looked  at  her  with  great,  startled, 
wondering  eyes.  She  recognized  in  an  instant  the  awful  in- 
discretion  into  which  she  had  been  betrayed  by  her  fierce  and 
sudden  anger,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  knees  before  the 
boy,  exclaiming: 

"Harry,  you  must  forgive  me.  I  was  beside  myself  with 
anger.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  Indeed,  I  did 
not.  Come  to  my  lap  again,  and  kiss  me,  or  I  shall  be 
wretched." 

Harry  still  maintained  his  attitude  and  his  silence.  A  furi 
ous  word  from  an  angel  would  not  have  surprised  or  pained 
him  more  than  this  expression  of  her  anger,  that  had  flashed 
upon  him  like  a  fire  from  hell. 


SEVENOAKS.  253 

Still  the  lady  knelt,  and  pleaded  for  his  forgiveness. 

"  No  one  loves  me,  Harry.  If  you  leave  me,  and  do  not 
forgive  me,  I  shall  wish  I  were  dead.  You  cannot  be  so  cruel." 

"I  didn't  know  that  ladies  ever  said  such  words,"  said 
Harry. 

"  Ladies  who  have  little  boys  to  love  them  never  do,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Dillingham. 

"  If  I  love  you,  shall  you  ever  speak  so  again  ?"  inquired 
Harry. 

"  Never,  with  you  and  God  to  help  me,"  she  responded. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  led  the  boy  to  her  chair,  and  once 
more  held  him  in  her  embrace. 

"  You  can  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  Harry — a  great  deal 
more  good  than  you  know,  or  can  understand.  Men  and 
women  make  me  worse.  There  is  nobody  who  can  protect 
me  like  a  child  that  trusts  me.  You  can  trust  me." 

Then  they  sat  a  long  time  in  a  silence  broken  only  by 
Harry's  sobs,  for  the  excitement  and  the  reaction  had  shaken 
his  nerves  as  if  he  had  suffered  a  terrible  fright. 

"You  have  never  told  me  your  whole  name,  Harry,"  she 
said  tenderly,  with  the  design  of  leading  him  away  from  the 
subject  of  his  grief. 

"Harry  Benedict." 

He  felt  the  thrill  that  ran  through  her  frame,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  shock  of  electricity.  The  arms  that  held  him  trembled, 
and  half  relaxed  their  hold  upon  him.  Her  heart  struggled, 
intermitted  its  beat,  then  throbbed  against  his  reclining  head 
as  if  it  were  a  hammer.  He  raised  himself,  and  looked  up  at 
her  face.  It  was  pale  and  ghastly  ;  and  her  eyes  were  dimly 
looking  far  off,  as  if  unconscious  of  anything  near. 

"Are  you  ill?" 
There  was  no  answer. 
"Are  you  ill?"  with  a  voice  of  alarm. 
The  blood  mounted  to  her  face  again. 
"It  was  a  bad  turn,"  she  said.     "Don't  mind  it.     Ym 
better  now." 


254  SEVENOAK&. 

"  Isn't  it  better  for  me  to  sit  in  a  chair?"  he  inquired, 
trying  to  rise. 

She  tightened  her  grasp  upon  him. 

"  No,  no.  I  am  better  with  you  here.  I  wish  you  wer« 
never  to  leave  me. ' ' 

Again  they  sat  a  long  time  in  silence.     Then  she  said  : 

"Harry,  can  you  write?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  pencil  on  the  table,  and  paper.  Go  and 
write  your  father's  name.  Then  come  and  give  me  a  kiss,  and 
then  go  home.  I  shall  see  you  again,  perhaps  to-night.  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  apologize  to  Mrs.  Balfour  for  keeping  you 
so  long." 

Harry  did  her  bidding.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  turned 
her  eyes  to  the  window.  There  she  saw  Mr.  Belcher,  who 
had  just  been  sent  away  from  the  door.  He  bowed,  and  she 
returned  the  bow,  but  the  smile  she  summoned  to  her  face  by 
force  of  habit,  failed  quickly,  for  her  heart  had  learned  to 
despise  him. 

Harry  wrote  the  name,  left  it  upon  the  table,  and  then  came 
to  get  his  kiss.  The  caress  was  calmer  and  tenderer  than  any 
she  had  given  him.  His  instinct  detected  the  change ;  and, 
when  he  bade  her  a  good  night,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  grown 
motherly, — as  if  a  new  life  had  been  developed  in  her  that 
subordinated  the  old, — as  if,  in  her  life,  the  sun  had  set,  and 
the  moon  had  risen. 

She  had  no  doubt  that  as  Harry  left  the  door  Mr.  Belcher 
would  see  him,  and  seek  admission  at  once  on  his  hateful 
business,  for,  strong  as  his  passion  was  for  Mrs.  Dillingham, 
he  never  forgot  his  knavish  affairs,  in  which  he  sought  to  use 
her  as  a  tool.  So  when  she  summoned  the  servant  to  let 
Harry  out,  she  told  him  that  if  Mr.  Belcher  should  call,  he 
was  to  be  informed  that  she  was  too  ill  to  see  him. 

Mr.  Belcher  did  call  within  three  minutes  after  the  door 
closed  on  the  lad.  He  had  a  triumphant  smile  on  his  face, 
as  if  he  did  not  doubt  that  Mrs.  Dillingham  had  been  engaged 


SEVENOAKS.  255 

in  forwarding  his  own  dirty  work.  His  face  blackened  as  he 
received  her  message,  and  he  went  wondering  home,  with  ill- 
natured  curses  on  his  lips  that  will  not  bear  repeating. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  closed  the  doors  of  her  drawing-room, 
took  the  paper  on  which  Harry  had  written,  and  resumed  her 
seat.  For  the  hour  that  lay  between  her  and  her  dinner,  she  held 
the  paper  in  her  cold,  wet  hand.  She  knew  the  name  she 
should  find  there,  and  she  determined  that  before  her  eye 
should  verify  the  prophecy  of  her  heart,  she  would  achieve 
perfect  self-control. 

Excited  by  the  interview  with  the  lad,  and  the  prescience 
of  its  waiting  denouement,  her  mind  went  back  into  his  and 
his  father's  history.  Mr.  Belcher  could  have  alleviated  that 
history;  nay,  prevented  it  altogether.  What  had  been  her 
own  responsibility  in  the  case  ?  She  could  not  have  foreseen 
all  the  horrors  of  that  history ;  but  she,  too,  could  have  pre 
sented  it.  The  consciousness  of  this  filled  her  with  self-con 
demnation  ;  yet  she  could  not  acknowledge  herself  to  be  on 
a.  level  with  Mr.  Belcher.  She  was  ready  and  anxious  to  right 
all  the  wrongs  she  had  inflicted ;  he  was  bent  on  increasing 
and  confirming  them.  She  cursed  him  in  her  heart  for  his 
'njustice  and  cruelty,  and  almost  cursed  herself. 

But  she  dwelt  most  upon  the  future  which  the  discoveries  of 
'.he  hour  had  rendered  possible  to  herself.  She  had  found  a  way 
out  of  her  hateful  life.  She  had  found  a  lad  who  admired, 
loved,  and  trusted  her,  upon  whom  she  could  lavish  her  hun 
gry  affections — one,  indeed,  upon  whom  she  had  a  right  to 
lavish  them.  The  life  which  she  had  led  from  girlhood  was 
like  one  of  those  deep  canons  in  the  far  West,  down  which 
her  beautiful  boat  had  been  gliding  between  impassable  walls 
that  gave  her  only  here  and  there  glimpses  of  the  heaven  above. 
The  uncertain  stream  had  its  fascinations.  There  were  beau 
tiful  shallows  over  which  she  had  glided  smoothly  and  safely, 
rocks  and  rapids  over  which  she  had  shot  swiftly  amid  attrac 
tive  dangers,  crooked  courses  that  led  she  did  not  know 
whither,  landing-places  where  she  could  enjoy  an  hour  of  the 


256  SEVENOAKS. 

kindly  sun.  But  all  the  time  she  knew  she  was  descending. 
The  song  of  the  waterfalls  was  a  farewell  song  to  scenes  that 
could  never  be  witnessed  again.  Far  away  perhaps,  perhaps 
near,  waited  the  waters  of  the  gulf  that  would  drink  the 
sparkling  stream  into  its  sullen  depths,  and  steep  it  in  its  own 
bitterness.  It  was  beautiful  all  the  way,  but  it  was  going 
down,  down,  down.  It  was  seeking  the  level  of  its  death ; 
and  the  little  boat  that  rode  so  buoyantly  over  the  crests  which 
betrayed  the  hidden  rocks,  would  be  but  a  chip  among  the 
waves  of  the  broad,  wild  sea  that  waited  at  the  end. 

Out  of  the  fascinating  roar  that  rilled  her  ears;  out  of  the 
sparkling  rapids  and  sheeny  reaches,  and  misty  cataracts  that 
enchanted  her  eyes ;  and  out  of  the  relentless  drift  toward 
the  bottomless  sea,  she  could  be  lifted  !  The  sun  shone  over 
head.  There  were  rocks  to  climb  where  her  hands  would 
bleed  ;  there  were  weary  heights  to  scale ;  but  she  knew  that 
on  the  top  there  were  green  pastures  and  broad  skies,  and  the 
music  of  birds — places  where  she  could  rest,  and  from  which 
she  could  slowly  find  her  way  back,  in  loving  companionship, 
to  the  mountains  of  purity  from  which  she  had  come. 

She  revolved  the  possibilities  of  the  future  ;  and,  provided 
the  little  paper  in  her  hand  should  verify  her  expectations, 
she  resolved  to  realize  them.  During  the  long  hour  in  which 
she  sat  thinking,  she  discounted  the  emotion  which  the  little 
paper  in  her  hand  held  for  her,  so  that,  when  she  unfolded  it 
and  read  it,  she  only  kissed  it,  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom. 

After  dinner,  she  ordered  her  carriage.  Then,  thinking 
that  it  might  be  recognized  by  Mr.  Belcher,  she  changed  her 
order,  and  sent  to  a  public  stable  for  one  that  was  not  identi 
fied  with  herself;  and  then,  so  disguising  her  person  that  in 
the  evening  she  would  not  be  known,  she  ordered  the  driver 
to  take  her  to  Mr.  Balfour's. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  had  met  Mr.  Balfour  many  times,  but  she 
had  never,  though  on  speaking  terms  with  her,  cultivated 
Mrs.  Balfour's  acquaintance,  and  that  lady  did  not  fail  to 
show  the  surprise  she  felt  when  her  visitor  was  announced. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  257 

"I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  your  little  ward,"  said 
Mrs.  Dillingham,  "and  we  have  become  good  friends.  I 
enticed  him  into  my  house  to-day,  and  as  I  kept  him  a  long 
time,  I  thought  I  would  come  over  and  apologize  for  his  ab 
sence." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  been  with  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Balfour,  coolly. 

"  He  could  ok>  no  less  than  come  to  me  when  I  asked  him 
to  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  Dillingham;  "and  I  was  entirely  to 
blame  for  his  remaining  with  me  so  long.  You  ladies  who  have 
children  cannot  know  how  sweet  their  society  sometimes  is  to 
those  who  have  none." 

Mrs.  Balfour  was  surprised.  She  saw  in  her  visitor's  eyes 
the  evidence  of  recent  tears,  and  there  was  a  moisture  in  them 
then,  and  a  subdued  and  tender  tone  to  her  voice  which  did 
not  harmonize  at  all  with  her  conception  of  Mrs.  Dillingham' s 
nature  and  character.  Was  she  trying  her  arts  upon  her? 
She  knew  of  her  intimacy  with  Mr.  Belcher,  and  naturally 
connected  the  visit  with  that  unscrupulous  person's  schemes. 

Mrs.  Balfour  was  soon  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  her  hus 
band,  who  greeted  Mrs.  Dillingham  in  the  old,  stereotyped, 
gallant  way  in  which  gentlemen  were  accustomed  to  address 
her.  How  did  she  manage  to  keep  herself  so  young  ?  Would 
she  be  kind  enough  to  give  Mrs.  Balfour  the  name  of  her  hair 
dresser  ?  What  waters  had  she  bathed  in,  what  airs  had  she 
breathed,  that  youth  should  clothe  her  in  such  immortal  fashion  ? 

Quite  to  his  surprise,  Mrs.  Dillingham  had  nothing  to  say 
to  this  badinage.  She  seemed  either  not  to  hear  it  at  all,  or 
to  hear  it  with  impatience.  She  talked  in  a  listless  way,  and 
appeared  to  be  thinking  of  anything  but  what  was  said. 

At  last,  she  asked  Mr.  Balfour  if  she  could  have  the  liberty 
to  obtrude  a  matter  of  business  upon  him.  She  did  not  like 
to  interfere  with  his  home  enjoyments,  but  he  would  oblige 
her  much  by  giving  her  half  an  hour  of  private  conversation. 
Mr.  Balfour  looked  at  his  wife,  received  a  significant  glance, 
and  invited  the  lady  into  his  library. 


258  SEVENOAKS. 

It  was  a  long  interview.  Nine  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  eleven 
o'clock  sounded,  and  then  Mrs.  Balfour  went  upstairs.  It 
was  nearly  midnight  when  Mrs.  Dillingham  emerged  from  the 
door.  She  handed  a  bank-note  to  the  impatient  coachman, 
and  ordered  him  to  drive  her  home.  As  she  passed  Mr. 
Belcher's  corner  of  the  street,  she  saw  Phipps  helping  his 
master  to  mount  the  steps.  He  had  had  an  evening  of  carousal 
among  some  of  his  new  acquaintances.  "Brute!"  she  said 
to  herself,  and  withdrew  her  head  from  the  window. 

Admitted  at  her  door,  she  went  to  her  room  in  her  unusual 
wrappings,  threw  herself  upon  her  knees,  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  bed.  She  did  not  pray  ;  she  hardly  lifted  her  thoughts 
She  was  excessively  weary.  Why  she  knelt  she  did  not  know ; 
but  on  her  knees  she  thought  over  the  occurrences  of  the 
svening.  Her  hungry  soul  was  full — full  of  hopes,  plans,  pur 
poses.  She  had  found  something  to  love. 

What  is  that  angel's  name  who,  shut  away  from  ten  thou 
sand  selfish,  sinful  lives,  stands  always  ready,  when  the 
bearers  of  those  lives  are  tired  of  them,  and  are  longing  for 
something  better,  to  open  the  door  into  a  new  realm?  What 
patience  and  persistence  are  his !  Always  waiting,  always 
prepared,  cherishing  no  resentments,  willing  to  lead,  anxious 
to  welcome,  who  is  he,  and  whence  came  he  ?  If  Mrs.  Dil- 
l.ingham  did  not  pray,  she  had  a  vision  of  this  heavenly 
visitant,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  his  garments. 

She  rose  and  walked  to  her  dressing-table.  There  she 
found  a  note  in  Mrs.  Belcher's  hand-writing,  inviting  her  to  a 
drive  in  the  Park  with  her  and  Mr.  Belcher  on  the  following 
afternoon.  Whether  the  invitation  was  self-moved,  or  the 
result  of  a  suggestion  from  Mr.  Belcher,  she  did  not  know. 
In  truth,  she  did  not  care.  She  had  wronged  Mrs.  Belcher  in 
many  ways,  and  she  would  go. 

Why  was  it  that  when  the  new  and  magnificent  carriage 
rolled  up  to  her  door  the  next  afternoon,  with  its  wonderful 
horses  and  showy  equipage,  and  appointments  calculated  to 
attract  attention,  her  heart  was  smitten  with  disgust  ?  She 


SEVENOAKS.  259 

was  to  be  stared  at ;  and,  during  all  the  drive,  she  was  to  sit 
face  to  face  with  a  man  who  believed  that  he  had  fascinated 
her,  and  who  was  trying  to  use  her  for  all  the  base  purposes 
in  which  it  was  possible  for  her  to  serve  his  will.  What  could 
she  do  with  him  ?  How,  in  the  new  relations  of  her  life  to 
him,  should  she  carry  herself? 

The  drive  was  a  quiet  one.  Mr.  Belcher  sat  and  feasted 
iis  greedy,  exultant  eyes  on  the  woman  before  him,  and  mar- 
vcled  at  the  adroitness  with  which,  to  use  his  own  coarse 
phrase,  she  "  pulled  the  wool  "  over  the  eyes  of  his  wife.  In 
what  a  lovely  way  did  she  hide  her  passion  for  him  !  How 
sweetly  did  she  draw  out  the  sympathy  of  the  deceived 
woman  at  her  side  !  Ah  !  he  could  trust  her  !  Her  changed, 
amiable,  almost  pathetic  demeanor  was  attributed  by  him  to 
the  effect  of  his  power  upon  her,  and  her  own  subtle  ingenuity 
in  shielding  from  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Belcher  a  love  that  she 
deemed  hopeless.  In  his  own  mind  it  was  not  hopeless.  In 
his  own  determination,  it  should  not  be ! 

As  for  Mrs.  Belcher,  she  had  never  so  much  enjoyed  Mrs. 
Dillingham's  society  before.  She  blamed  herself  for  not 
having  understood  her  better ;  and  when  she  parted  with  her 
for  the  day,  she  expressed  in  hearty  terms  her  wish  that  she 
might  see  more  of  her  in  the  future. 

Mrs.  Dillingham,  on  the  return,  was  dropped  at  her  own 
door  first.  Mr.  Belcher  alighted,  and  led  her  up  the  steps. 
Then,  in  a  quiet  voice,  he  said : 

"  Did  you  find  out  anything  of  the  boy?" 

"  Yes,  some  things,  but  none  that  it  would  be  of  advantage 
to  you  to  know." 

"  Well,  stick  to  him,  now  that  you  have  got  hold  of  him." 

"I  intend  to." 

"  Good  for  you  !" 

"I  imagine  that  he  has  been  pretty  well  drilled,"  said  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  "  and  told  just  what  he  may  and  must  not  say  to 
any  one." 

"  You  can  work  it  out  of  him.     I'll  risk  you." 


260  SEVENOAKS. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  could  hardly  restrain  her  impatience,  but 
said  quietly : 

"  I  fancy  I  have  discovered  all  the  secrets  I  shall  ever  dis 
cover  in  him.  I  like  the  boy,  and  shall  cultivate  his 
acquaintance  ;  but,  really,  it  will  not  pay  you  to  rely  upon 
me  for  anything.  He  is  under  Mr.  Balfour's  directions,  and 
very  loyal." 

Mr.  Belcher  remembered  his  own  interview  with  the  lad, 
and  recognized  the  truth  of  the  statement.  Then  he  bade 
her  good-bye,  rejoined  his  wife,  and  Jfode  home. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

IN  WHICH  MR.  BELCHER    BECOMES    PRESIDENT    OF    THE   CROOKED 
VALLEY    RAILROAD,    WITH    LARGE      "TERMINAL    FACILI- 
TIESj  '*  AND  MAKES  AN  ADVENTURE  INTO  A  LONG- 
MEDITATED    CRIME. 

MR.  BELCHER  had  never  made  money  so  rapidly  as  during  v 
the  summer  following  his  removal  to  New  York.  The  tides  . 
of  wealth  rolled  in  faster  than  he  could  compute  them. 
Twenty  regiments  in  the  field  had  been  armed  with  the  Bel 
cher  rifle,  and  the  reports  of  its  execution  and  its  popularity 
among  officers  and  men,  gave  promise  of  future  golden  har 
vests  to  the  proprietor.  Ten  thousand  of  them  had  been 
ordered  by  the  Prussian  Government.  His  agents  in  France,  v 
Russia,  Austria,  and  Italy,  all  reported  encouragingly  con 
cerning  their  attempts  to  introduce  the  new  arm  into  the 
military  service  of  those  countries.  The  civil  war  had  ad-  v 
vanced  the  price  of,  and  the  demand  for,  the  products  of  his 
mills  at  Sevenoaks.  The  people  of  that  village  had  never  be 
fore  received  so  good  wages,  or  been  so  fully  employed.  It 
seemed  as  if  there  were  work  for  every  man,  woman  and 
child,  who  had  hands  willing  to  work.  Mr.  Belcher  bought 
stocks  upon  a  rising  market,  and  unloaded  again  and  again, 
sweeping  into  his  capacious  coffers  his  crops  of  profits.  Bonds 
that  early  in  the  war  could  be  bought  for  a  song,  rose  steadily 
up  to  par.  Stocks  that  had  been  kicked  about  the  market  for 
years,  took  on  value  from  day  to  day,  and  asserted  themselves 
as  fair  investments.  From  these,  again  and  again,  he  harvested 
the  percentage  of  advance,  until  his  greed  was  gorged. 

That  he  enjoyed  his  winnings,  is  true ;  but  the  great  trouble 

261 


262  SEVENOAKS. 

with  him  was  that,  beyond  a  certain  point,  he  could  shotf 
nothing  for  them.  He  lived  in  a  palace,  surrounded  by  every 
appointment  of  luxury  that  his  wealth  could  buy.  His  stables 
held  the  choicest  horse-flesh  that  could  be  picked  out  of  the 
whole  country,  from  Maine  to  Kentucky.  His  diamond  shirt- 
studs  were  worth  thousands.  His  clothes  were  of  the  most 
expensive  fabrics,  made  at  the  top  of  the  style.  His  wife  and 
children  had  money  lavished  upon  them  without  stint.  In  the 
direction  of  show,  he  could  do  no  more.  It  was  his  glory  to 
drive  in  the  Park  alone,  with  his  servants  in  livery  and  his 
four  horses,  fancying  that  he  was  the  observed  of  all  observers, 
and  the  envied  of  all  men. 

Having  money  still  to  spend,  it  must  find  a  market  in  othei 
directions.  He  gave  lavish  entertainments  at  his  club,  at 
which  wine  flowed  like  water,  and  at  which  young  and  idle 
men  were  gathered  in  and  debauched,  night  after  night.  He 
was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  flatterers  who  laughed  at  his 
jokes,  repeated  them  to  the  public,  humored  his  caprices,  and 
lived  upon  his  hospitalities.  The  plain  "  Colonel  Belcher  " 
of  his  first  few  months  in  New  York,  grew  into  the  "General," 
so  that  Wall  street  knew  him,  at  last,  by  that  title,  without 
the  speaking  of  his  name.  All  made  way  for  "  the  General" 
whenever  he  appeared.  "The  General"  was  "bulling" 
this  stock,  and  "  bearing  "  that.  All  this  was  honey  to  his 
palate,  and  he  was  enabled  to  forget  something  of  his  desire 
for  show  in  his  love  of  glory.  Power  was  sweet,  as  well  as 
display. 

Of  course,  "  the  General  "  had  forsaken,  somewhat,  his 
orderly  habits  of  life — those  which  kept  him  sound  and  strong 
in  his  old  country  home.  He  spent  few  evenings  with  his 
family.  There  was  so  genuine  a  passion  in  his  heart  for  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  that  he  went  into  few  excesses  which  com 
promised  a  fair  degree  of  truthfulness  to  her  ;  but  he  was  in 
the  theaters,  in  the  resorts  of  fast  men,  among  the  clubs,  and 
always  late  in  his  bed.  Phipps  had  a  hard  time  in  looking 
after  and  waiting  upon  him;  but  had  a  kind  of  sympathetic 


SEVENOAKS.  263 

enjoyment  in  it  all,  because  he  knew  there  was  more  or  less 
of  wickedness  connected  with  it. 

Mr.  Belcher's  nights  began  to  tell  upon  his  days.  It 
became  hard  for  him  to  rise  at  his  old  hours ;  so,  after  a 
while,  he  received  the  calls  of  his  brokers  in  bed.  From  nine 
to  ten,  Mr.  Belcher,  in  his  embroidered  dressing-gown,  with 
his  breakfast  at  his  side,  gave  his  orders  for  the  operations  of 
the  day.  The  bedroom  became  the  General's  headquarters, 
and  there  his  staff  gathered  around  him.  Half  a  dozen  cabs 
and  carriages  at  his  door  in  the  morning  became  a  daily 
recurring  vision  to  residents  and  habitual  passengers. 

Mr.  Talbot,  not  a  regular  visitor  at  this  hour,  sometimes 
mingled  with  the  brokers,  though  he  usually  came  late  for  the 
purpose  of  a  private  interview.  He  had  managed  to  retain 
the  General's  favor,  and  to  be  of  such  use  to  him  that  that 
gentleman,  in  his  remarkable  prosperity,  had  given  up  the  idea 
of  reducing  his  factor's  profits. 

One  morning,  after  the  brokers  and  the  General's  lawyer 
were  gone,  Talbot  entered,  and  found  his  principal  still  in 
bed. 

"Toll,  it's  a  big  thing,"  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"I  believe  you." 

"  Toll,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  I've  always  worked  to  a  pro* 
gramme,  and  exactly  this  was  my  programme  when  I  came 
here.  How's  your  wife?" 

"Quite  well." 

"Why  don't  we  see  more  of  her?" 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Talbot  is  a  quiet  woman,  and  knows  her  placa. 
She  isn't  quite  at  home  in  such  splendors  as  yours,  you  know, 
and  she  naturally  recognizes  my  relations  to  you." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense,  Toll  !  She  mustn't  feel  that 
way.  I  like  her.  She  is  a  devilish  handsome  woman." 

"  I  shall  tell  her  that  you  say  so,"  said  the  obsequious  Mr. 
Talbot. 

"Toll,  my  boy,  I've  got  an  idea." 

"  Cherish  it,  General;  you  may  never  have  another." 


264  SEVENOAKS. 


"Good  for  you.     I  owe  you  one." 

"Not  at  all,  General.     I'm  only  paying  off  old  debts." 

" Toll,  how  are  you  doing  now  ?     Getting  a  living?" 

"  Thanks  to  you,  General,  I  am  thriving  in  a  modest  way. 
I  don't  aspire  to  any  such  profits  as  you  seem  to  win  so  easily, 
so  I  have  no  fault  to  find." 

"The  General  has  been  a  godsend  to  you,  hasn't  he,  eh? 
Happy  day  when  you  made  his  acquaintance,  eh  ?  Well,  go 
ahead  ;  it's  all  right.  Pile  it  up  while  you  can." 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  about  your  idea,"  Mr.  Talbot 
suggested. 

"  Well,  Toll,  I'm  pining  for  a  railroad.  I'm  crying  nights 
for  a  railroad.  A  fellow  must  have  amusements  you  know. 
Health  must  be  taken  care  of,  eh  ?  All  the  fellows  have  rail 
roads.  It's  well  enough  to  keep  horses  and  go  to  the  theater. 
A  steamship  line  isn't  bad,  but  the  trouble  is,  a  man  can't  be 
captain  of  his  own  vessels.  No,  Toll ;  I  need  a  railroad. 
I'm  yearning  for  engines,  and  double  tracks,  and  running 
over  my  own  line." 

"You  might  buy  up  a  European  kingdom  or  two,  at  a 
pinch,  General." 

"  Yes  ;  but,  Toll,  you  don't  know  what  terminal  facilities 
I've  got  for  a  railroad." 

"Your  pocket  will  answer  for  one  end,"  said  Talbot, 
laughing. 

"Right,  the  first  time,"  responded  the  General,  "and 
glory  will  answer  for  the  other.  Toll,  do  you  know  what  I 
see  at  the  other  end  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  see  a  man  of  about  the  size  of  Robert  Belcher  in  the 
chair  of  an  Alderman.  I  see  him  seated  on  a  horse,  riding 
down  Broadway  at  the  head  of  a  regiment.  I  see  him  Mayor 
of  the  City  of  New  York.  I  see  him  Governor  of  the  State. 
I  see  him  President  of  the  United  States.  I  see  no  reason 
why  he  cannot  hold  any  one,  or  all  these  offices.  All  doors 
yield  to  a  golden  key.  Toll,  I  haven't  got  to  go  as  far  as  I 


SEVEN  OAKS.  265 

have  come,  to  reach  tiie  top.     Do  you  know  it  ?    Big  thing ! 
Yes,  Toll,  I  must  have  a  railroad." 

"Have  you  selected  the  toy  you  propose  to  purchase?'* 
inquired  Talbot. 

"Well,  I've  looked  about  some;  but  the  trouble  is,  that  all 
the  best  of  'em  are  in  hands  that  can  hold  them.  I  must  buy 
a  poor  one  and  build  it  up,  or  make  it  build  me  up. ' ' 

"That's  a  pity." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  The  big  ones  are  hard  to 
handle,  and  I'm  not  quite  big  enough  for  them  yet.  What 
do  you  say  to  the  Crooked  Valley?" 

"  Poor  road,  and  wants  connections." 

"  Those  are  exactly  the  points.  I  can  buy  it  for  a  song, 
issue  bonds,  and  build  the  connections — issue  plenty  of  bonds, 
and  build  plenty  of  connections.  Terminal  facilities  large — 
do  you  understand ?  Eh,  Toll?" 

Mr.  Talbot  laughed. 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  any  suggestions  from  me,"  he 
said. 

"No;  the  General  can  manage  this  thing  without  help. 
He  only  wanted  to  open  your  eyes  a  little,  and  get  you  ready 
for  your  day's  work.  You  fellows  who  fiddle  around  with  a 
few  goods  need  waking  up  occasionally.  Now,  Toll,  go  off 
and  let  the  General  get  up.  I  must  have  a  railroad  before 
night,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep  a  wink.  By-by  ! ' ' 

Talbot  turned  to  leave  the  room,  when  Mr.  Belcher  arrested 
him  with  the  question  : 

"  Toll,  would  you  like  an  office  in  the  Crooked  Valley  cor 
poration?" 

Talbot  knew  that  the  corporation  would  have  a  disgraceful 
history,  and  a  disastrous  end — that  it  would  be  used  by  the 
General  for  the  purposes  of  stealing,  and  that  the  head  of  it 
would  not  be  content  to  share  the  plunder  with  others.  He 
had  no  wish  to  be  his  principal's  cat's-paw,  or  to  be  identified 
with  an  enterprise  in  which,  deprived  of  both  will  and  voice, 
he  should  get  neither  profit  nor  credit.  So  he  said : 
12 


266  SEVENOAKS. 

11  No,  I  thank  you ;  I  have  all  I  can  do  to  take  care  of  youi 
goods,  and  I  am  not  ambitious." 

"There'll  be  nothing  for  you  to  do,  you  know.  I  shall 
run  the  whole  thing." 

"I  can  serve  you  better,  General,  where  I  am." 

"Well,  by-by;  I  won't  urge  you." 

After  Talbot  left,  Mr.  Belcher  rose  and  carefully  dressed 
himself.  Phipps  was  already  at  the  door  with  the  carriage, 
and,  half  an  hour  afterward,  the  great  proprietor,  full  of  his 
vain  and  knavish  projects,  took  his  seat  in  it,  and  was  whirled 
off  down  to  Wall  street.  His  brokers  had  already  been, 
charged  with  his  plans,  and,  before  he  reached  the  ground, 
every  office  where  the  Crooked  Valley  stock  was  held  had 
been  visited,  and  every  considerable  deposit  of  it  ascertained, 
so  that,  before  night,  by  one  grand  swoop,  the  General  had 
absorbed  a  controlling  interest  in  the  corporation. 

A  few  days  afterward,  the  annual  meeting  was  held,  Mr. 
Belcher  was  elected  President,  and  every  other  office  was  filled 
by  his  creatures  and  tools.  His  plans  for  the  future  of  the 
road  gradually  became  known,  and  the  stock  began  to  assume 
a  better  position  on  the  list.  Weak  and  inefficient  corpora 
tions  were  already  in  existence  for  completing  the  various 
„  connections  of  the  road,  and  of  these  he  immediately,  and 
for  moderate  sums,  bought  the  franchises.  Within  two 
months,  bonds  were  issued  for  building  the  roads,  and  the 
roads  themselves  were  put  under  contract.  The  "terminal 
facilities"  of  one  end  of  every  contract  were  faithfully  at 
tended  to  by  Mr.  Belcher.  His  pockets  were  still  capacious 
and  absorbent.  He  parted  with  so  much  of  his  appreciated 
stock  as  he  could  spare  without  impairing  his  control,  and  so 
at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  found  himself  in  the  possession 
of  still  another  harvest.  Not  only  this,  but  he  found  his 
power  increased.  Men  watched  him,  and  followed  him  into 
'  other  speculations.  They  hung  around  him,  anxious  to  get 
•  indications  of  his  next  movement.  They  flattered  him ;  they 
fawned  upon  him ;  and  to  those  whom  he  could  in  any  way 


SEVENOAKS.  267 

na-;  for  his  own  purposes,  he  breathed  little  secrets  of  the  mar 
ket  from  which  they  won  their  rewards.  People  talked  about 
what  ''  the  General "  was  doing,  and  proposed  to  do,  as  if  he 
were  a  well-recognized  factor  in  the  financial  situation. 

Whenever  he  ran  over  his  line,  which  he  often  did  for  in 
formation  and  amusement,  and  for  the  pleasure  of  exercising 
his  power,  he  went  in  a  special  car,  at  break-neck  speed,  by 
telegraph,  always  accompanied  by  a  body  of  friends  and 
toadies,  whom  he  feasted  on  the  way.  Everybody  wanted  to 
see  him.  He  was  as  much  a  lion  as  if  he  had  been  an 
Emperor  or  a  murderer.  To  emerge  upon  a  platform  at  a 
way-station,  where  there  were  hundreds  of  country  people 
who  had  flocked  in  to  witness  the  exhibition,  was  his  great 
delight.  He  spoke  to  them  familiarly  and  good-naturedly ; 
transacted  his  business  with  a  rush ;  threw  the  whole  village 
into  tumult ;  waved  his  hand  ;  and  vanished  in  a  cloud  of 
dust.  Such  enterprise,  such  confidence,  such  strength,  such 
interest  in  the  local  prosperities  of  the  line,  found  their  ^ 
natural  result  in  the  absorption  of  the  new  bonds.  They 
were  purchased  by  individuals  and  municipal  corporations. 
Freight  was  diverted  from  its  legitimate  channels,  and  drawn 
over  the  road  at  a  loss  ;  but  it  looked  like  business.  Passes 
were  scattered  in  every  direction,  and  the  passenger  traffic 
seemed  to  double  at  once.  All  was  bustle,  drive,  business. 
Under  a  single  will,  backed  by  a  strong  and  orderly  executive 
capacity,  the  dying  road  seemed  to  leap  into  life.  It  had  no: 
an  employ^  who  did  not  know  and  take  off  his  hat  to  the 
General.  He  was  a  kind  of  god,  to  whom  they  all  bowed 
down  ;  and  to  be  addressed  or  chaffed  by  him  was  an  honor 
to  be  reported  to  friends,  and  borne  home  with  self-gratula- 
tions  to  wives  and  children. 

The  General,  of  course,  had  moments  of  superlative  happi 
ness.     He  never  had  enjoyed  anything  more  than  he  enjoyed   • 
his  railroad.     His  notoriety  with  the  common  people  along 
the  line — the  idea  which  they  cherished  that  he  could  do  any 
thing  he  wished  to  do  \  that  he  had  only  to  lift  hit,  hand  to 


SEVENOAKS. 

win  gold  to  himself  or  to  bear  it  to  them — these  were  pleasant 
in  themselves ;  but  to  have  their  obeisance  witnessed  by  his 
city  friends  and  associates,  while  they  discussed  his  champagne 
and  boned  turkey  from  the  abounding  hampers  which  always 
furnished  "  the  President's  car" — this  was  the  crown  of  his 
pleasure.  He  had  a  pleasure,  too,  in  business.  He  never  had 
enough  to  do,  and  the  railroad  which  would  have  loaded  down 
an  ordinary  man  with  an  ordinary  conscience,  was  only  a 
pleasant  diversion  to  him.  Indeed,  he  was  wont  to  reiterate, 
when  rallied  upon  his  new  enterprise  :  "  The  fact  was,  I  had 
to  do  something  for  my  health,  you  know." 

Still,  the  General  was  not  what  could  be  called  a  thoroughly 
happy  man.  He  knew  the  risks  he  ran  on  Change.  He  had 
been  reminded,  by  two  or  three  mortifying  losses,  that  the  sun 
did  not  always  shine  on  Wall  street.  He  knew  that  his  rail- 
^  road  was  a  bubble,  and  that  sooner  or  later  it  would  burst. 
Times  wou«d  change,  and,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  thai 
would  last  like  his  manufactures.  With  a  long  foresight,  he 
had  ordered  the  funds  received  from  the  Prussian  sales  of  the 
Belcher  rifle  to  be  deposited  with  a  European  banking  house 
at  interest,  to  be  drawn  against  in  his  foreign  purchases  of 
material;  yet  he  never  drew  against  this  deposit.  Self-confi 
dent  as  he  was,  glutted  with  success  as  he  was,  he  had  in  his 
heart  a  premonition  that  some  time  he  might  want  that  money 
just  where  it  was  placed.  So  there  it  lay,  accumulating  in 
terest.  It  was  an  anchor  to  windward,  that  would  hold  him 
if  ever  his  bark  should  drift  into  shallow  or  dangerous  waters. 
The  grand  trouble  was,  that  he  did  not  own  a  single  patent 
by  which  he  was  thriving  in  both  branches  of  his  manufac 
tures.  He  had  calculated  upon  worrying  the  inventor  into  a 
sale,  and  had  brought  his  designs  very  nearly  to  realization, 
when  he  found,  to  his  surprise  and  discomfiture,  that  he  had 
driven  him  into  a  mad-house.  Rich  as  he  was,  therefore, 
there  was  something  very  unsubstantial  in  his  wealth,  even  to 
his  own  apprehension.  Sometimes  it  all  seemed  like  a  bubble, 
which  a  sudden  breath  would  wreck.  Out  of  momentary 


SEVENOAKS.  269 

despondencies,  originating  in  visions  like  these,  he  always  rose 
with  determinations  that  nothing  should  come  between  him 
and  his  possessions  and  prosperities  which  his  hand,  by  fair 
means  or  foul,  could  crush. 

Mr.  Balfour,  a  lawyer  of  faultless  character  and  undoubted 
courage,  held  his  secret.  He  could  not  bend  him  or  buy  him. 
He  was  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  whom  he  was  afraid  of. 
He  was  the  one  man  in  New  York  who  knew  whether  Bene« 
diet  was  alive  or  not.  He  had  Benedict's  heir  in  his  house, 
and  he  knew  that  by  him  the  law  would  lay  its  hand  on  him 
and  his  possessions.  He  only  wondered  that  the  action  was 
delayed.  Why  was  it  delayed  ?  Was  he,  Mr.  Belcher,  ready 
for  it  ?  He  knew  he  was  not,  and  he  saw  but  one  way  by 
which  he  could  become  so.  Over  this  he  hesitated,  hoping 
that  some  event  would  occur  which  would  render  his  projected 
crime  unnecessary. 

Evening  after  evening,  when  every  member  of  his  family 
was  in  bed,  he  shut  himself  in  his  room,  looked  behind  every 
article  of  furniture  to  make  himself  sure  that  he  was  alone, 
and  then  drew  from  its  drawer  the  long  unexecuted  contract 
with  Mr.  Benedict,  with  the  accompanying  autograph  letters, 
forwarded  to  him  by  Sam  Yates.  Whole  quires  of  paper  he 
traced  with  the  names  of  "Nicholas  Johnson7'  and  "James 
Ramsey."  After  he  had  mastered  the  peculiarities  of  their 
signs  manual,  he  took  up  that  of  Mr.  Benedict.  Then  he 
wrote  the  three  names  in  the  relations  in  which  he  wished 
them  to  appear  on  the  document.  Then  he  not  only  burned 
all  the  paper  he  had  used,  in  the  grate,  but  pulverized  its 
ashes. 

Not  being  able  to  ascertain  whether  Benedict  were  alive  or 
dead,  it  would  be  necessary  to  produce  a  document  which 
would  answer  his  purpose  in  either  case.  Of  course,  it  would 
be  requisite  that  its  date  should  anticipate  the  inventor's  in 
sanity.  He  would  make  one  more  effort  to  ascertain  a  fact 
that  had  so  direct  a  relation  to  his  future  security. 

Accordingly,  one  evening  after  his  railroad  scheme  wai 


SEVENOAKS. 

fairly  inaugurated,  he  called  on  Mrs.  Dillingham,  determined 
to  obtain  from  her  what  she  knew.  He  had  witnessed  fol 
months  her  fondness  for  Harry  Benedict.  The  boy  had  ap 
parently  with  the  consent  of  the  Balfours,  been  frequently  in 
her  house.  They  had  taken  long  drives  together  in  the  Park. 
Mr.  Belcher  felt  that  there  was  a  peculiar  intimacy  between 
the  two,  yet  not  one  satisfactory  word  had  he  ever  heard  from 
the  lady  about  her  new  pet.  He  had  become  conscious,  too, 
of  a  certain  change  in  her.  She  had  been  less  in  society, 
was  more  quiet  than  formerly,  and  more  reticent  in  his  pre 
sence,  though  she  had  never  repulsed  him.  He  had  caught 
fewer  glimpses  of  that  side  of  her  nature  and  character  which 
he  had  once  believed  was  sympathetic  with  his  own.  Misled 
by  his  own  vanity  into  the  constant  belief  that  she  was  seri 
ously  in  love  with  himself,  he  was  determined  to  utilize  her 
passion  for  his  own  purposes.  If  she  would  not  give  kisses, 
she  should  give  confidence. 

"Mrs.  Dillingham,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  waiting  to  hear 
something  about  your  pauper  prot£g&t  and  I  have  come  to 
night  to  find  out  what  you  know  about  him  and  his  fa 
ther/' 

"  If  I  knew  of  anything  that  would  be  of  real  advantage  to 
you,  I  would  tell  you,  but  I  do  not,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  that's  an  old  story.  Tell  that  to  the  marines.  I'm 
sick  of  it." 

Mrs.  Dillingham's  face  flushed. 

"  I  prefer  to  judge  for  myself,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you," 
pursued  the  proprietor.  "You've  had  the  boy  in  your  hands 
for  months,  and  you  know  him,  through  and  through,  or  else 
you  are  not  the  woman  I  have  taken  you  for." 

"  You  have  taken  me  for,  Mr.  Belcher  ?" 

"  Nothing  offensive.  Don't  roll  up  your  pretty  eyes  in 
that  way." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  was  getting  angry. 

"Please  don't  address  me  in  that  way  again,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  what  the  devil  have  you  to  do  with  the  boy  any 


SEVENOAKS.  37* 

way,  if  you  are  not  at  work  for  me  ?    That's  what  I'd  like  to 
know." 

"  I  like  him,  and  he  is  fond  of  me." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  helps  me,"  responded  Mr.  Belcher. 

"  It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  enjoy  it." 

"Oh,  it  is!" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  with  an  emphatic  nod  of  the  head. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  that  will  go  down  with  me.  Perhaps 
you  are  not  acquainted  with  my  way  of  doing  business." 

"  Are  you  doing  business  with  me,  Mr.  Belcher?  Am  I  a 
partner  of  yours  ?  If  I  am,  perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough 
to  tell  me — business-like  enough  to  tell  me — why  you  wish 
me  to  worm  secrets  out  of  this  boy." 

It  was  Mr.  Belcher's  turn  to  color. 

"  No,  I  will  not.  I  trust  no  woman  with  my  affairs.  I 
keep  my  own  councils." 

"  Then  do  your  own  business,"  snappishly. 

"  Mrs.  Dillingham,  you  and  I  are  friends — destined,  I 
trust,  to  be  better  friends — closer  friends — than  we  have  ever 
been.  This  boy  is  of  no  consequence  to  you,  and  you  cannot 
afford  to  sacrifice  a  man  who  can  serve  you  more  than  you 
seem  to  know,  for  him." 

"  Well,"  said  the  lady,  "there  is  no  use  in  acting  under  a 
mask  any  longer.  I  would  not  betray  the  confidence  of  a 
child  to  serve  any  man  I  ever  saw.  You  have  been  kind  to 
me,  but  you  have  not  trusted  me.  The  lad  loves  me,  and 
trusts  me,  and  I  will  never  betray  him.  What  I  tell  you  is 
true.  I  have  learned  nothing  from  him  that  can  be  of  any 
genuine  advantage  to  you.  That  is  all  the  answer  you  will 
ever  get  from  me.  If  you  choose  to  throw  away  our  friend 
ship,  you  can  take  the  responsibility,'*  and  Mrs.  Dillingham 
hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief. 

Mr.  Belcher  had  been  trying  an  experiment,  and  he  had 
not  succeeded — could  not  succeed  ;  and  there  sat  the  beauti 
ful,  magnanimous  woman  before  him,  her  heart  torn  as  ha 
believed  with  love  for  him,  yet  loyal  to  her  ideas  of  honor  as 


2/a  SEVENOAKS. 

they  related  to  a  confiding  child  !  How  beautiful  she  was  I 
Vexed  he  certainly  was,  but  there  was  a  balm  for  his  vexation 
in  these  charming  revelations  of  her  character. 

"Well,"  he  said  rising,  and  in  his  old  good-natured  tonev 
"there's  no  accounting  for  a  woman.  I'm  not  going  to 
bother  you." 

He  seized  her  unresisting  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and 
went  away.  He  did  not  hear  the  musical  giggle  that  followed 
him  into  the  street,  but,  absorbed  by  his  purpose,  went  home 
and  mounted  to  his  room.  Locking  the  door,  and  peering 
about  among  the  furniture,  according  to  his  custom,  he  sat 
down  at  his  desk,  drew  out  the  old  contract,  and  started  at 
his  usual  practice.  "Sign  it,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  then 
you  can  use  it  or  not — just  as  you  please.  It's  not  the  signing 
that  will  trouble  you  ;  it's  the  using." 

He  tried  the  names  all  over  again,  and  then,  his  heart  beat 
ing  heavily  against  the  desk,  he  spread  the  document  and  es 
sayed  his  task.  His  heart  jarred  him.  His  hand  trembled. 
What  could  he  do  to  calm  himself?  He  rose  and  walked  to 
his  mirror,  and  found  that  he  was  pale.  "  Are  you  afraid  ?" 
he  said  to  himself.  "Are  you  a  coward?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Did  I  laugh  ?  My  God !  how  it  sounded !  Aren't  you  a 
pretty  King  of  Wall  Street !  Aren't  you  a  lovely  President 
of  the  Crooked  Valley  Railroad  !  Aren't  you  a  sweet  sort  of 
a  nabob  !  You  must  do  it  Do  you  hear  ?  You  must  do  it  I 
Eh  ?  do  you  hear  ?  Sit  down,  sir  !  Down  with  you,  sir  J 
and  don't  you  rise  again  until  the  thing  is  done." 

The  heart-thumping  passed  away.  The  reaction,  under  the 
strong  spur  and  steady  push  of  will,  brought  his  nerves  up  to 
steadiness,  and  he  sat  down,  took  his  pencils  and  pens  that 
had  been  selected  for  the  service,  and  wrote  first  the  name  of 
Paul  Benedict,  and  then,  as  witnesses,  the  names  of  Nicholas 
Johnson  and  James  Ramsey. 

So  the  document  was  signed,  and  witnessed  by  men  whom 
he  believed  to  be  dead.  Tho  witnesses  whose  names  he  had 
forged  he  knew  to  be  dead.  With  this  document  he  believed 


SEVENOAKS.  273 

lie  could  defend  his  possession  of  all  the  patent  rights  on 
which  the  permanence  of  his  fortune  depended.  He  per 
mitted  the  ink  to  dry,  then  folded  the  paper,  and  put  it  back 
in  its  place.  Then  he  shut  and  opened  the  drawer,  and  took 
it  out  again.  It  had  a  genuine  look. 

Then  he  rang  his  bell  and  called  for  Phipps.  When  Phippg 
appeared,  he  said : 

"Well,  Phipps,  what  do  you  want?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  and  Phipps  smiled. 

"Very  well;  help  yourself." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  and  Phipps  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  How  are  you  getting  along  in  New  York,  Phipps?  " 

"Very  well,  sir." 

" Big  thing  to  be  round  with  the  General,  isn't  it?  It's  a 
touch  above  Sevenoaks,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Get  enough  to  eat  down-stairs?" 

"Plenty." 

"  Good  clothes  to  wear  ?" 

"  Very  good,"  and  Phipps  looked  down  upon  his  toilet  with 
great  satisfaction. 

"  Stolen  mostly  from  the  General,  eh  ?" 

Phipps  giggled. 

"  That's  all ;  you  can  go.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  you  were 
in  the  house,  and  well  taken  care  of." 

Phipps  started  to  go.  "  By  the  way,  Phipps,  have  you  a 
good  memory? — first-rate  memory?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Can  you  remember  everything  that  happened,  a — say,  six 
years  ago?" 

"I  can  try,"  said  Phipps,  with  an  intelligent  glance  into 
Mr.  Belcher* s  eyes. 

"  Do  you  remember  a  day,  about  six  years  ago,  when  Paul 
Benedict  came  into  my  house  at  Sevenoaks,  with  Nicholas 
Johnson  and  James  Ramsey,  and  they  all  signed  a  paper  to 
gether?" 


274  SEVENOAKS. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Phipps. 

"  And  do  you  remember  that  I  said  to  you,  after  they  were 
gone,  that  that  paper  gave  me  all  of  Benedict's  patent 
rights?" 

Phipps  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  then  said  : 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  remember  that  I  said,  '  It  will  make  you 
very  rich,  won't  it,  Mr.  Belcher?'  " 

"And  what  did  I  reply  to  you  ?" 

"  You  said,  'That  remains  to  be  seen.'  " 

"  All  right.  Do  you  suppose  you  should  know  that  paper 
if  you  were  to  see  it  ?" 

"  I  think  I  should — after  I'd  seen  it  once." 

"Well,  there  it  is — suppose  you  take  a  look  at  it." 

"  I  remember  it  by  two  blots  in  the  corner,  and  the  red 
lines  down  the  side. ' ' 

"You  didn't  write  your  own  name,  did  you?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  did." 

"  Suppose  you  examine  the  paper,  under  James  Ramsey's 
name,  and  see  whether  yours  is  there. ' ' 

Mr.  Belcher  walked  to  his  glass,  turning  his  back  upon 
Phipps.  The  latter  sat  down,  and  wrote  his  name  upon  the 
spot  thus  blindly  suggested. 

"It  is  here,  sir." 

"Ah!  So  you  have  found  it!  You  distinctly  remember 
writing  it  on  that  occasion,  and  can  swear  to  it,  and  to  the 
signatures  of  the  others  ?' ' 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  And  all  this  was  done  in  my  library,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  be  there  when  these  other  men 
wer*  there  ?' ' 

"You  called  me  in,  sir." 

''All  right !     You  never  smoke,  Phipps?" 

'Never  in  the  stable,  sir." 

''  Well,  lay  these  cigars  away  where  you  have  laid  the  rest 
•f  im,  and  go  to  bed." 


SEVENOAKS.  275 

Phipps  took  the  costly  bundle  of  cigars  that  was  handed  to 
him,  carried  them  by  habit  to  his  nose,  said  "Thank  you, 
sir,"  and  went  off  down  the  stairs,  felicitating  himself  on  the 
ease  with  which  he  had  won  so  choice  a  treasure. 

The  effect  of  Phipps'  signature  on  Mr.  Belcher's  mind  was 
a  curious  illustration  of  the  self-deceptions  in  which  a  human 
heart  may  indulge.  Companionship  in  crime,  the  sharing  of 
responsibility,  the  fact  that  the  paper  was  to  have  been  signed 
at  the  time  it  was  drawn,  and  would  have  been  signed  but  for 
the  accident  of  Benedict's  insanity ;  the  fact  that  he  had  paid 
moneys  with  the  expectation  of  securing  a  title  to  the  inven 
tions  he  was  using — all  these  gave  to  the  paper  an  air  of 
genuineness  which  surprised  even  Mr.  Belcher  himself. 

When  known  evil  seems  absolutely  good  to  a  man,  and  con 
scious  falsehood  takes  on  the  semblance  and  the  authority  of 
truth,  the  Devil  has  him  fast. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IN  WHICH    "  THE   LITTLE  WOMAN  "   ANNOUNCES  HER  ENGAGEMENT 

TO  JIM  FENTON  AND  RECEIVES  THE  CONGRATULATIONS 

OF  HER  FRIENDS. 

AFTER  the  frame  of  Jim's  hotel  was  up,  at  Number  Nine, 
and  those  who  had  assisted  in  its  erection  were  out  of  the 
woods,  he  and  his  architect  entered  with  great  industry  upon 
the  task  of  covering  it.  Under  Mr.  Benedict's  direction, 
Jim  became  an  expert  in  the  work,  and  the  sound  of  two 
busy  hammers  kept  the  echoes  of  the  forest  awake  from  dawn 
until  sunset,  every  day.  The  masons  came  at  last  and  put  up 
the  chimneys ;  and  more  and  more,  as  the  days  went  on,  the 
building  assumed  the  look  of  a  dwelling.  The  grand  object 
was  to  get  their  enterprise  forwarded  to  a  point  that  would 
enable  them  to  finish  everything  during  the  following  winter, 
with  such  assistance  as  it  might  be  necessary  to  import  from 
Sevenoaks.  The  house  needed  to  be  made  habitable  for 
workmen  while  their  work  was  progressing,  and  to  this  end 
Mr.  Benedict  and  Jim  pushed  their  efforts  without  assistance. 

Occasionally,  Jim  found  himself  obliged  to  go  to  Sevenoaks 
for  supplies,  and  for  articles  and  tools  whose  necessity  had 
not  been  anticipated.  On  these  occasions,  he  always  called 
Mike  Conlin  to  his  aid,  and  always  managed  to  see  "  the 
little  woman  "  of  his  hopes.  She  was  busy  with  her  prepa 
rations,  carried  on  in  secret ;  and  he  always  left  her  with  his 
head  full  of  new  plans  and  his  heart  brimming  with  new  satis 
factions.  It  was  arranged  that  they  should  be  married  in  the 
following  spring,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  city  boarders  ;  and  all 
his  efforts  were  bent  upon  completing  the  house  for  occupa 
tion. 

276    . 


SEVENOAKS.  277 

During  the  autumn,  Jim  took  from  the  Sevenoaks  Post- 
Office  a  letter  for  Paul  Benedict,  bearing  the  New  York 
post  mark,  and  addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  a  lady.  The 
letter  was  a  great  puzzle  to  Jim,  and  he  watched  its  effect 
upon  his  companion  with  much  curiosity.  Benedict  wept 
over  it,  and  went  away  where  he  could  weep  alone.  When 
he  came  back,  he  was  a  transformed  man.  A  new  light  was 
in  his  eye,  a  new  elasticity  in  all  his  movements. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  about  it,  Jim,"  he  said;  "at  least  I 
cannot  tell  you  now ;  but  a  great  burden  has  been  lifted  from 
my  life.  I  have  never  spoken  of  this  to  you,  or  to  anybody ; 
but  the  first  cruel  wound  that  the  world  ever  gave  me  has 
been  healed  by  a  touch. ' ' 

"It  takes  a  woman  to  do  them  things,"  said  Jim.  "I 
knowed  when  ye  gin  up  the  little  woman,  as  was  free  from 
what  happened  about  an  hour  arter,  that  ye  was  firin'  low  an* 
savin'  yer  waddin'.  Oh,  ye  can't  fool  me,  not  much  !" 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Jim?"  said  Benedict,  smiling, 
and  handing  him  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars  that  the 
letter  had  inclosed. 

Jim  looked  it  over  and  read  it  through  with  undisguised 
astonishment. 

"  Did  she  gin  it  to  ye?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"An'  be  ye  a  goin'  to  keep  it?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  keep  it." 

Jim  was  evidently  doubtful  touching  the  delicacy  both  of 
tendering  and  receiving  such  a  gift. 

"If  that  thing  had  come  to  me  from  the  little  woman," 
said  he,  "I  should  think  she  was  gittin'  oneasy,  an'  a  little 
dubersome  about  my  comin'  to  time.  It  don't  seem  jest  the 
thing  for  a  woman  to  shell  out  money  to  a  man.  My  nater 
goes  agin  it.  I  feel  it  all  over  me,  an'  I  vow,  I  b'lieve  that 
if  the  little  woman  had  did  that  thing  to  me,  I  sh'd  rub  out 
my  reckonin'  an*  start  new." 

"It's  all  right,  though,  Jim,"  responded  Benedict,  good* 


*78  SEVENOAKS. 

wafcuredly — "  right  for  the  woman  to  give  it,  and  right  for  mo 
to  receive  it.  Don't  trouble  yourself  at  all  about  it." 

Benedict's  assurance  did  little  to  relieve  Jim's  bewilder 
ment,  who  still  thought  it  a  very  improper  thing  to  receive 
money  from  a  woman.  He  did  not  examine  himself  far 
enough  to  learn  that  Benedict's  independence  of  his  own  care 
and  provision  was  partly  the  cause  of  his  pain.  Five  hundred 
dollars  in  the  woods  was  a  great  deal  of  money.  To  Jim's 
apprehension,  the  man  had  become  a  capitalist.  Some  one 
beside  himself — some  one  richer  and  more  powerful  than  him- 
lelf — had  taken  the  position  of  benefactor  toward  his  friend. 
He  was  glad  to  see  Benedict  happy,  but  sorry  that  he  could 
not  have  been  the  agent  in  making  him  so. 

"Well,  I  can't  keep  ye  forever'n'  ever,  but  I  was  a  hopin* 
ye'd  hang  by  till  I  git  hold  of  the  little  woman,"  said  Jim. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  would  leave  you  now,  Jim?" 

"Well,  I  knowed  a  yoke  o'  cattle  couldn't  start  ye,  with  a 
hoss  ahead  on  'em;  but  a  woman,  Mr.  Benedict  " — and  Jim's 
voice  sunk  to  a  solemn  and  impressive  key — "a  woman  with 
the  right  kind  of  an  eye,  an'  a  takin'  way,  is  stronger  nor  a 
steam  Injun.  She  can  snake  ye  'round  anywhere ;  an'  the 
queerest  thing  about  it  is  that  a  feller's  willin*  to  go,  an*  thinks 
it's  purty.  She  tells  ye  to  come,  an'  ye  come  smilin' ;  and 
then  she  tells  ye  to  go,  an'  ye  go  smilin' ;  and  then  she  winds 
ye  'round  her  finger,  and  ye  feel  as  limber  an*  as  willin'  as  if 
ye  was  a  whip-lash,  an*  hadn't  nothin'  else  to  do." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  shall  stay  with  you,  Jim." 

"Well,  I  hope  ye  will;  but  don't  ye  be  too  sartin;  not 
that  I'm  goin'  to  stan'  atween  ye  an'  good  luck,  but  if  ye 
cal'late  that  a  woman's  goin'  to  let  ye  do  jest  as  ye  think  ye 
will — leastways  a  woman  as  has  five  hundred  dollars  in  yer 
pocket — yer  eddication  hasn't  been  well  took  care  on.  If  I 
was  sitooated  like  you,  I'd  jest  walk  up  to  the  pastur-bars  like 
a  hoss,  an'  whinner  to  git  in,  an'  expect  to  be  called  with  a 
corn-cob  when  she  got  ready  to  use  me." 

"Still,  I  shall  stay  with  you,  Jim." 


SEVENOAKS.  279 

"All  right;  here's  hopin',  an'  here's  my  hand.'' 

Benedict's  letter,  besides  the  check,  held  still  another  in- 
closure — a  note  from  Mr.  Balfour.  This  he  had  slipped  into 
his  pocket,  and,  in  the  absorption  of  his  attention  produced 
by  the  principal  communication,  forgotten.  At  the  close  of 
his  conversation  with  Jim,  he  remembered  it,  and  took  it  out 
and  read  it.  It  conveyed  the  intelligence  that  the  lawyer 
found  it  impossible  to  leave  the  city  according  to  his  promise, 
for  an  autumn  vacation  in  the  woods.  Still,  he  would  find 
some  means  to  send  up  Harry  if  Mr.  Benedict  should  insist 
upon  it.  The  boy  was  well,  and  progressing  satisfactorily  in 
his  studies.  He  was  happy,  and  found  a  new  reason  for  hap 
piness  in  his  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Dillingham,  with  whom  he 
was  spending  a  good  deal  of  his  leisure  time.  If  Mr.  Bene* 
diet  would  consent  to  a  change  of  plans,  it  was  his  wish  to 
keep  the  lad  through  the  winter,  and  then,  with  all  his  family, 
to  go  up  to  Number  Nine  in  the  spring,  be  present  at 
Jim's  wedding,  and  assist  in  the  inauguration  of  the  new 
hotel. 

Mr.  Benedict  was  more  easily  reconciled  to  this  change  of 
plan  than  he  would  have  believed  possible  an  hour  previously. 
The  letter,  whose  contents  had  so  mystified  and  disturbed 
Jim,  had  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  his  life.  He  replied 
to  this  letter  during  the  day,  and  wrote  another  to  Mr.  Bal 
four,  consenting  to  his  wishes,  and  acquiescing  in  his  plans. 
For  the  first  time  in  many  years,  he  could  see  through  all  his 
trials,  into  the  calm  daylight.  Harry  was  safe  and  happy  in 
a  new  association  with  a  woman  who,  more  than  any  other, 
held  his  life  in  her  hands.  He  was  getting  a  new  basis  for 
life  in  friendship  and  love.  Shored  up  by  affection  and  sym 
pathy,  and  with  a  modest  competence  in  his  hands  for  all 
present  and  immediately  prospective  needs,  his  dependent 
nature  could  once  more  stand  erect. 

Henceforward  he  dropped  his  idle  dreaming  and  became 
interested  in  his  work,  and  doubly  efficient  in  its  execution. 
Jim  once  more  had  in  Dossession  the  old  friend  whose  cheer- 


*8o  SEVENOAKS. 


and  good-nature  had  originally  won  his  affection  ;  and 
he  late  autumn  and  winter  which  lay  before  them  seemed  full 
of  hopeful  and  happy  enterprise. 

Miss  Butterworth,  hearing  occasionally  through  Jim  of  the 
progress  of  affairs  at  Number  Nine,  began  to  think  it  about 
time  to  make  known  her  secret  among  her  friends.  Already 
they  had  begun  to  suspect  that  the  little  tailoress  had  a  secret, 
out  of  which  would  grow  a  change  in  her  life.  She  had  made 
some  astonishing  purchases  at  the  village  shops,  which  had 
been  faithfully  reported.  She  was  working  early  and  late  in 
her  little  room.  She  was,  in  the  new  prosperity  of  the  vil 
lagers,  collecting  her  trifling  dues.  She  had  given  notice  of 
the.  recall  of  her  modest  loans.  There  were  many  indications 
that  she  was  preparing  to  leave  the  town. 

"Now,  really,"  said  Mrs.  Snow  to  her  one  evening,  when 
Miss  Butterworth  was  illuminating  the  parsonage  by  her 
presence  —  "  now,  really,  you  must  tell  us  all  about  it.  I'm 
dying  to  know." 

"Oh,  it's  too  ridiculous  for  anything,"  said  Miss  Butter- 
worth,  laughing  herself  almost  into  hysterics. 

"Now,  what,  Keziah?  What's  too  ridiculous?  You  art 
the  most  provoking  person  !" 

"  The  idea  of  my  getting  married  !" 

Mrs.  Snow  jumped  up  and  seized  Miss  Butterworth's  hands, 
and  said  : 

"Why,  Keziah  Butterworth!  You  don't  tell  me!  You 
wicked,  deceitful  creature  !" 

The  three  Misses  Snow  all  jumped  up  with  their  mother, 
and  pressed  around  the  merry  object  of  their  earnest  con 
gratulations. 

"So  unexpected  and  strange,   you  know,"  said  the  oldest. 

"  So  very  unexpected  !"  said  the  second. 

"And  so  very  strange,  too  !"  echoed  Number  Three. 

"  Well,  it  is  too  ridiculous  for  anything,"  Miss  Butterworth 
repeated.  "The  idea  of  my  living  to  be  an  old  maid,  and, 
what's  more,  making  up  my  mind  to  it  and  then"-- 


SEVENOAKS.  '281 

and  then  Miss  Butterworth  plunged  into  a  new  fit  of  merri 
ment. 

"Well,  Keziah,  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy.  Indeed  I 
do,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  becoming  motherly. 

"  Happy  all  your  life,"  said  Miss  Snow. 

"Very  happy,"  said  Number  Two. 

"All  your  life  long,"  rounded  up  the  complement  of  good 
wishes  from  the  lips  of  the  youngest  of  the  trio. 

"Well,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you — to  you  all  " — said 
Miss  Butterworth,  wiping  her  eyes;  "  but  it  certainly  is  the 
most  ridiculous  thing.  I  say  to  myself  sometimes :  '  Keziah 
Butterworth  !  You  little  old  fool !  What  are  you  going  to 
do  with  that  man?  How  are  you  going  to  live  with  him  ?' 
Goodness  knows  that  I've  racked  my  brain  over  it  until  I'm 
just  about  crazy.  Don't  mention  it,  but  I  believe  I'll  use  him 
for  a  watch-dog — tie  him  up  daytimes,  and  let  him  out  nights, 
you  know  ! ' ' 

"Why,  isn't  he  nice?"  inquired  Mrs.  Snow. 

"  Nice  !     He's  as  rough  as  a  hemlock  tree." 

"  What  do  you  marry  him  for?"  inquired  Mrs.  Snow  in 
astonishment. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I've  asked  myself  the  question 
a  thousand  times." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  marry  him?" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  guess  I  do." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  soberly,  "This  is  a  very 
solemn  thing." 

"  I  don't  see  it  in  that  light,"  said  Miss  Butterworth, 
indulging  in  a  new  fit  of  laughter.  "  I  wish  I  could,  but  it's 
the  funniest  thing.  I  wake  up  laughing  over  it,  and  I  go  to 
sleep  laughing  over  it,  and  I  say  to  myself,  'what  are  you 
laughing  at,  you  ridiculous  creature?"1 

"Well,  I  believe  you  are  a  ridiculous  creature,"  said  Mrs. 
Snow. 

"I  know  I  am,  and  if  anybody  had  told  me  a  year  ago  that 
I  should  ever  marry  Jim  Fenton,  I " 


*82  SEVENOAKS. 

"Jim  Fenton  !"  exclaimed  the  whole  Snow  familyc 
"Well,  what  is  there  so  strange  about  my  marrying  Jira 
Fenton?"  and  the  little  tailoress  straightened   in  her  chair, 
her  eyes  flashing,  and  the  color  mounting  to  her  face. 

"  Oh,  nothing  ;  but  you  know — it's  such  a  surprise — he'a 
so — he's  so — well  he's  a — not  cultivated — never  has  seen 
much  society,  you  know ;  and  lives  almost  out  of  the  world. 


(C 


Oh,  no  !  He  isn't  cultivated  !  He  ought  to  have  been 
brought  up  in  Sevenoaks  and  polished  !  He  ought  to  have 
been  subjected  to  the  civilizing  and  refining  influences  of  Bob 
Belcher!" 

"  Now,  you  mustn't  be  offended,  Keziah.  We  are  all  your 
friends,  and  anxious  for  your  welfare." 

"  But  you  think  Jim  Fenton  is  a  brute." 

"  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"But  you  think  so." 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  know  him  better  than  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  do,  and  he  is  just  the  loveliest,  manliest,  noblest, 
splendidest  old  fellow  that  ever  lived.  I  don't  care  if  he  doe? 
live  out  of  the  world.  I'd  go  with  him,  and  live  with  him, 
if  he  used  the  North  Pole  for  a  back  log.  Fah  !  I  hate  a 
slick  man.  Jim  has  spoiled  me  for  anything  but  a  true  man 
in  the  rough.  There's  more  pluck  in  his  old  shoes  than  you 
can  find  in  all  the  men  of  Sevenoaks  put  together.  And  he's 
as  tender — Oh,  Mrs.  Snow  !  Oh,  girls  !  He's  as  tender  as  a 
baby — just  as  tender  as  a  baby  !  He  has  said  to  me  the  most 
wonderful  things  !  I  wish  I  could  remember  them.  I  never 
can,  and  I  couldn't  say  them  as  he  does  if  I  could.  Since  1 
became  acquainted  with  him,  it  seems  as  if  the  world  had 
been  made  all  over  new.  I'd  become  kind  o'  tired  of  human 
nature,  you  know.  It  seemed  sometimes  as  if  it  was  just  as 
well  to  be  a  cow  as  a  woman ;  but  I've  become  so  much  to 
him,  and  he  has  become  so  much  to  me,  that  all  the  men  and 
women  around  me  have  grown  beautiful.  And  he  loves  me 
in  a  way  that  is  so  strong — and  so  protecting — and  so  sweet 


SEVENOAKS.  283 

and  careful — that — now  don't  you  laugh,  or  you'll  make  me 
angry — I'd  feel  safer  in  his  arms  than  I  would  in  a  church." 

"Well,  I'm  sure!"  exclaimed  Mrs.   Snow. 

"Isn't  it  remarkable  !"  said  Miss  Snow. 

"Quite  delightful!"  exclaimed  the  second  sister,  whose 
enthusiasm  could  not  be  crammed  into  Miss  Snow's  expres 
sion. 

"  Really  charming,"  added  Number  Three. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  you  don't  know  what  you  want  to 
marry  him  for?"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  with  a  roguish  twinkle  in 
her  eye.  "  You  are  quite  sure  you  don't  love  him  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Butterworth.  "It's  some 
thing.  I  wish  you  could  hear  him  talk.  His  grammar  would 
kill  you.  It  would  just  kill  you.  You'd  never  breathe  after 
it.  Such  awful  nominative  cases  as  that  man  has  !  And  you 
can't  beat  him  out  of  them.  And  such  a  pronunciation  !  His 
words  are  just  as  rough  as  he  is,  and  just  like  him.  They 
seem  to  have  a  great  deal  more  meaning  in  them  than  they  do 
when  they  have  good  clothes  on.  You  don't  know  how  I 
enjoy  hearing  him  talk." 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  you  love  him,"  said  Mrs.  Snow, 
smiling. 

"  I  don't  know.  Isn't  it  the  most  ridiculous  thing, 
now?" 

"  No ;  it  isn't  ridiculous  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  soberly. 

Miss  Butterworth' s  moon  was  sailing  high  that  evening. 
There  were  but  few  clouds  in  her  heaven,  but  occasionally  a 
tender  vapor  passed  across  the  silver  disk,  and  one  passed  at 
this  moment.  Her  eyes  were  loaded  with  tears  as  she  looked 
up  in  Mrs.  Snow's  face,  and  said  : 

"  I  was  very  lonely,  you  know.  Life  had  become  very  tame, 
and  I  saw  nothing  before  me  different  from  my  daily  experi 
ence,  which  had  grown  to  be  wearisome.  Jim  came  and 
opened  a  new  life  to  me,  offered  me  companionship,  new  cir 
cumstances,  new  surroundings.  It  was  like  being  born  again. 
And,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  it  is  natural  for  a  woman  to 


284  SEVEN  OAKS. 

carry  her  own  life.  I  got  very  tired  of  mine,  and  when  this 
strong  man  came,  and  was  willing  to  take  it  up,  and  bear  it 
for  me  as  the  greatest  pleasure  I  could  bestow  upon  him,  what 
could  I  do — now,  what  could  I  do?  I  don't  think  I'm  proud 
of  him,  but  I  belong  to  him,  and  I'm  glad ;  and  that's  all 
there  is  about  it ; "  and  Miss  Butterworth  sprang  to  her  feet  as 
if  she  were  about  to  leave  the  house. 

"You  are  not  going,"  said  Mrs.  Snow,  catching  her  by 
both  shoulders,  "so  sit  down." 

"I've  told  you  the  whole  :  there's  nothing  more.  I  sup 
pose  it  will  be  a  great  wonder  to  the  Sevenoaks  people,  and 
that  they'll  think  I'm  throwing  myself  away,  but  I  do  hope 
they  will  let  me  alone. ' ' 

"When  are  you  to  be  married?" 

"In  the  spring." 

"Where?" 

"  Oh  !  anywhere.  No  matter  where.  I  haven't  thought 
about  that  part  of  it." 

"Then  you'll  be  married  right  here,  in  this  house.  You 
shall  have  a  nice  little  wedding." 

"  Oh  !  and  orange-blossoms  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Snow,  clap 
ping  her  hands. 

"And  a  veil !"  added  Number  Two. 

"And  a "  Number  Three  was  not  so  familiar  with  such 

occasions  as  to  be  able  to  supply  another  article,  so  she 
clapped  her  hands. 

They  were  all  in  a  delicious  flutter.  It  would  be  so  nice 
to  have  a  wedding  in  the  house  !  It  was  a  good  sign.  Did 
the  young  ladies  think  that  it  might  break  a  sort  of  electric 
spell  that  hung  over  the  parsonage,  and  result  in  a  shower 
which  would  float  them  all  off?  Perhaps  so.  They  were,  at 
least,  very  happy  about  it. 

Then  they  all  sat  down  again,  to  talk  over  the  matter  of 
clothes.  Miss  Butterworth  did  not  wish  to  make  herself 
ridiculous. 

"I've  said  a  thousand  times,  if  I  ever  said  it  once,"  sh* 


SEVENOAKS.  285 

remarked,  "  that  there's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  Now,  I 
don't  want  to  hear  any  nonsense  about  orange-blossoms,  or 
about  a  veil.  If  there's  anything  that  I  do  despise  above 
board,  it's  a  bridal  veil  on  an  old  maid.  And  I'm  not  going 
to  have  a  lot  of  things  made  up  that  I  can't  use.  I'm  just 
going  to  have  a  snug,  serviceable  set  of  clothes,  and  in  three 
days  I'm  going  to  look  as  if  I'd  been  married  ten  years." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  Snow,  "  that  you  ought  to  do 
something.  I'm  sure,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  that  I  should 
want  to  do  something." 

The  other  girls  tittered. 

"Not  that  I  ever  expect  to  be  in  your  place,  or  any 
thing  like  it,"  she  went  on,  "but  it  does  seem  to  me  as  if 
something  extra  ought  to  be  done — white  kid  gloves  or  some 
thing." 

"And  white  satin  gaiters,"  suggested  the  youngest  sister. 

"  I  guess  you'd  think  Jim  Fenton  was  extra  enough  if  you 
knew  him,"  said  Miss  Butterworth,  laughing.  "There's 
plenty  that's  extra,  goodness  knows !  without  buying  any 
thing." 

"Well,"  persisted  the  youngest  Miss  Snow,  "I'd  have 
open -worked  stockings,  and  have  my  hair  frizzed,  any  way." 

"  Oh,  I  speak  to  do  your  hair,"  put  in  the  second  daughter. 

"  You're  just  a  lot  of  chickens,  the  whole  of  you,"  said  the 
tailoress. 

Miss  Snow,  whose  age  was  hovering  about  the  confines  of 
mature  maidenhood,  smiled  a  deprecating  smile,  and  said  that 
she  thought  she  was  about  what  they  sold  for  chickens  some 
times,  and  intimated  that  she  was  anything  but  tender. 

"Well,  don't  be  discouraged;  that's  all  I  have  to  say," 
remarked  Miss  Butterworth.  "  If  I  can  get  married,  anybody 
can.  If  anybody  had  told  me  that — well  isn't  it  too  ridicu 
lous  for  anything?  Now,  isn't  it?"  And  the  little  tailoress 
went  off  into  another  fit  of  laughter.  Then  she  jumped  up 
and  said  she  really  must  go. 

The  report  that  Jim  Fenton  was  soon  to  lead  to  the  hyme- 


286  SEVENOAKS. 

neal  altar  the  popular  village  tailoress,  spread  with  great  ra> 
pidity,  and  as  it  started  from  the  minister's  family,  it  had  3 
good  send-off,  and  was  accompanied  by  information  that  very 
pleasantly  modified  its  effect  upon  the  public  mind.  The  men 
of  the  village  who  knew  Jim  a  great  deal  better  than  the 
women,  and  who,  in  various  ways,  had  become  familiar  with 
his  plans  for  a  hotel,  and  recognized  the  fact  that  his  enter 
prise  would  make  Sevenoaks  a  kind  of  thoroughfare  for  his 
prospective  city-boarders,  decided  that  she  had  "done  well." 
Jim  was  enterprising,  and,  as  they  termed  it,  "  forehanded." 
His  habits  were  good,  his  industry  indefatigable,  his  common 
sense  and  good  nature  unexampled.  Everybody  liked  Jim. 
To  be  sure,  he  was  rough  and  uneducated,  but  he  was  honor 
able  and  true.  He  would  make  a  good  "provider."  Miss 
Butterworth  might  have  gone  further  and  fared  worse.  On 
the  whole,  it  was  a  good  thing ;  and  they  were  glad  for  Jim's 
sake  and  for  Miss  Butterworth' s  that  it  had  happened. 

The  women  took  their  cue  from  the  men.  They  thought, 
however,  that  Miss  Butterworth  would  be  very  lonesome,  and 
found  various  pegs  on  which  to  hang  out  their  pity  for  a  pub 
lic  airing.  Still,  the  little  tailoress  was  surprised  at  the  hearti 
ness  of  their  congratulations,  and  often  melted  to  tears  by 
the  presents  she  received  from  the  great  number  of  families 
for  whom,  v.^ery  year,  she  had  worked.  No  engagement  had 
occurred  in  SOenoaks  for  a  long  time  that  created  so  much 
interest,  and  enlisted  so  many  sympathies.  They  hoped  she 
would  be  very  happy.  They  would  be  exceedingly  sorry  to 
lose  her.  Nobody  could  ever  take  her  place.  She  had  always 
been  one  whom  they  could  have  in  their  families  "without 
making  any  difference,"  and  she  never  tattled. 

So  Miss  Butterworth  found  herself  quite  a  heroine,  but 
whenever  Jim  showed  himself,  the  women  all  looked  out  of 
the  windows,  and  made  their  own  comments.  After  all,  they 
couldn't  see  exactly  what  Miss  Butterworth  could  find  to  like 
in  him.  They  saw  a  tall,  strong,  rough,  good-natured-looking 
man,  whom  all  the  men  and  all  the  boys  greeted  with  genuine 


SEVENOAKS.  287 

heartiness.  They  saw  him  pushing  about  his  business  with 
the  air  of  one  who  owned  the  whole  village ;  but  his  clothes 
were  rough,  and  his  boots  over  his  trowsers.  They  hoped  it 
would  all  turn  out  well.  There  was  "  no  doubt  that  he  needed 
a  woman  badly  enough.*' 

Not  only  Miss  Butterworth  but  Jim  became  the  subject  of 
congratulation.  The  first  time  he  entered  Sevenoaks  after  the 
announcement  of  his  engagement,  he  was  hailed  from  every 
shop,  and  button-holed  at  every  corner.  The  good-natured 
chaffing  to  which  he  was  subjected  he  met  with  his  old  smile. 

"  Much  obleeged  to  ye  for  leavin*  her  for  a  man  as  knows 
a  genuine  creetur  when  he  sees  her,"  he  said,  to  one  and 
another,  who  rallied  him  upon  his  matrimonial  intentions. 

"  Isn't  she  rather  old  ?  "  inquired  one  whose  manners  were 
not  learned  of  Lord  Chesterfield. 

"I  dunno,"  he  replied ;  "she's  hearn  it  thunder  enough 
not  to  be  skeered,  an'  she's  had  the  measles  an*  the  whoopin' 
cough,  an*  the  chicken  pox,  an*  the  mumps,  an*  got  through 
with  her  nonsense.'* 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

iN  WHICH  JIM  GETS  THE  FURNITURE   INTO   HIS   HOUSE,  AND  MIKK 
CONLIN  GETS  ANOTHER  INSTALLMENT  OF  ADVICE  INTO  JIM. 

JIM  had  a  weary  winter.  He  was  obliged  to  hire  and  to 
board  a  number  of  workmen,  whom  it  was  necessary  to  bring 
in  from  Sevenoaks,  to  effect  the  finishing  of  his  house.  His  mo 
ney  ran  low  at  last,  and  Mr.  Benedict  was  called  upon  to  write 
a  letter  to  Mr.  Balfour  on  his  behalf,  accepting  that  gentle 
man's  offer  of  pecuniary  assistance.  This  was  a  humiliating 
trial  to  Jim,  for  he  had  hoped  to  enter  upon  his  new  life  free 
from  the  burden  of  debt  j  but  Mr.  Balfour  assured  him  that 
he  did  not  regard  his  contribution  to  the  building-fund  as  a 
loan — it  was  only  the  payment  for  his  board  in  advance. 

Jim  was  astonished  to  learn  the  extent  of  Miss  Butterworth's 
resources.  She  proposed  to  furnish  the  house  from  the 
savings  of  her  years  of  active  industry.  She  had  studied  it 
so  thoroughly  during  its  progress,  though  she  had  never  seen 
it,  that  she  could  have  found  every  door  and  gone  through 
every  apartment  of  it  in  the  dark.  She  had  received  from 
Mr.  Benedict  the  plan  and  dimensions  of  every  room.  Car 
pets  were  made,  matting  was  purchased,  sets  of  furniture  were 
procured,  crockery,  glass,  linen,  mirrors,  curtains,  kitchen- 
utensils,  everything  necessary  to  housekeeping,  were  bought 
and  placed  in  store,  so  that,  when  the  spring  came,  all  that 
remained  necessary  was  to  give  her  order  to  forward  them, 
and  write  her  directions  for  their  bestowal  in  the  house. 

The  long-looked  for  time  came  at  last.     The  freshets  of 

spring  had  passed  away ;    the  woods  were  filling  with  birds  ; 

the  shad-blossoms  were  reaching  their  flat  sprays  out  over  the 

river,  and  looking  at  themselves  in  the  sunny  waters ;  and  the 

288 


SEVEN  OAKS.  289 

thrush,  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  New  Year,  had  piped  all 
hands  from  below,  and  sent  them  into  the  rigging  to  spread 
the  sails 

Jim's  heart  was  glad.  His  house  was  finished,  and  nothing 
remained  but  to  fill  it  with  the  means  and  appliances  of  life, 
and  with  that  precious  life  to  which  they  were  to  be  devoted. 
The  enterprise  by  which  it  was  to  be  supported  lay  before 
him,  and  was  a  burden  upon  him ;  but  he  believed  in  himself, 
and  was  not  afraid. 

One  morning,  after  he  had  gone  over  his  house  for  the 
thousandth  time,  and  mounted  to  the  cupola  for  a  final 
survey,  he  started  for  Sevenoaks  to  make  his  arrangements  for 
the  transportation  of  the  furniture.  Two  new  boats  had  been 
placed  on  the  river  by  men  who  proposed  to  act  as  guides  to 
the  summer  visitors,  and  these  he  engaged  to  aid  in  the  water 
transportation  of  the  articles  that  had  been  provided  by  "the 
little  woman." 

After  his  arrival  in  Sevenoaks,  he  was  in  consultation  with 
her  every  day ;  and  every  day  he  was  more  impressed  by  the 
method  which  she  had  pursued  in  the  work  of  furnishing  his 
little  hotel. 

"  I  knowed  you  was  smarter  nor  lightning"  he  said  to  her; 
•'but  I  didn't  know  you  was  smarter  nor  a  man." 

In  his  journeys,  Jim  was  necessarily  thrown  into  tne  com 
pany  of  Mike  Conlin,  who  was  officiously  desirous  to  place 
at  his  disposal  the  wisdom  which  had  been  acquired  by  long 
years  of  intimate  association  with  the  feminine  element  of 
domestic  life,  and  the  ducies  and  practices  of  housekeeping. 
Wnen  the  last  load  of  furniture  was  on  its  way  to  Number 
Nine,  and  Jim  had  stopped  at  Mike's  house  to  refresh  his 
weary  team,  Mike  saw  that  his  last  opportunity  for  giving 
advice  had  come,  and  he  determined  to  avail  himself  of  it. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "  ye're  jist  nothing  but  a  babby,  an'  ye 
must  ax  me  some  quistions.  I'm  an  owld  housekaper,  an'  I 
kin  tell  ye  everything,  Jim." 

Jim  was  tired  -w^h  his  work,  and  tired  of  Mike.  The  great 
IJ 


SEVEN  OAKS. 

event  of  his  life  stood  so  closely  before  him,  and  he  was  so 
much  absorbed  by  it,  that  Mike's  talk  had  a  harsher  effect 
upon  his  sensibilities  than  the  grating  of  a  saw-mill. 

"  Ah  !  Mike  !  shut  up,  shut  up  1"  he  said.  **  Ye  mean  well, 
but  ye' re  the  ignorantest  ramus  I  ever  seen.  Ye  know  how  to 
run  a  shanty  an'  a  pig-pen,  but  what  do  ye  know  about  keep- 
in' a  hotel?" 

"  Bedad,  if  that's  where  ye  are,  what  do  ye  know  about 
kapin'  a  hotel  yersilf  ?  Ye'll  see  the  time,  Jim,  when  ye'll 
be  sorry  ye  turned  the  cold  shoolder  to  the  honest  tongue  of 
Mike  Conlin." 

"  Well,  Mike,  ye  understand  a  pig-pen  better  nor  I  do.  I 
gi'en  it  up,"  said  Jim,  with  a  sigh  that  showed  how  painfully 
Mike  was  boring  him. 

"  Yes,  Jim,  an1  ye  think  a  pig-pen  is  benathe  ye,  forgittin' 
a  pig  is  the  purtiest  thing  in  life.  Ah,  Jim  I  whin  ye  git  up 
in  the  marnin',  a  falin'  shtewed,  an*  niver  a  bit  o'  breakfast 
in  ye,  an'  go  out  in  the  djew  barefut,  as  ye  was  borrn,  lavin' 
yer  coat  kapin'  company  wid  yer  ugly  owld  hat,  waitin*  for 
yer  pork  and  pertaties,  an'  see  yer  pig  wid  his  two  paws  an*  his 
dirty  nose  rachin'  cover  the  pin,  an  say  in'  'good-marnin'  to 
ye,'  an'  squalin'  away  wid  his  big  v'ice  for  his  porridge,  ye'll 
remimber  what  I  say.  An',  Jim,  whin  ye  fade  'im,  ah !  whin 
ye  fade  'im !  an'  he  jist  lays  down  continted,  wid  his  belly 
full,  an*  ye  laugh  to  hear  'im  a  groontin'  an'  a  shwearin*  to 
'imself  to  think  he  can't  ate  inny  more,  an7  yer  owld  woman 
calls  ye  to  breakfast,  ye'll  go  in  jist  happy — jist  happy,  now. 
Ah,  ye  can't  tell  me !  I'm  an  owld  housekaper,  Jim." 

"Ye're  an  old  pig-keeper;  that's  what  you  be,"  said  Jim. 
"  Ye're  a  reg'lar  Paddy,  Mike  Ye're  a  good  fellow,  but  I'd 
sooner  hearn  a  loon  nor  a  pig  '* 

"  Divil  a  bit  o'  raison  have  ye  got  in  ye,  Jim.  Ye  can't 
ate  a  loon  no  more  nor  ye  can  ate  a  boot." 

Mike  was  getting  impatient  with  the  incorrigible  character 
of  Jim's  prejudices,  and  Jim  saw  that  he  was  grieving  him. 

"Well,  I  persume  I  sh'll  have  to  keep  pigs,  Mike."  he 


SEVENOAKS.  291 

said,  in  a  compromising  tone;  "but  I  shan't  dress  'em  in 
calliker,  nor  larn  'em  to  sing  Old  Hundred.  I  sh'll  jest  let 
'em  rampage  around  the  woods,  an'  when  I  want  one  on  'em, 
I'll  shoot  'im." 

"Yis,  bedad,  an*  thin  ye'll  shkin  'im,  an*  throw  the  rist 
of  'im  intil  the  river,"  responded  Mike,  contemptuously. 

"  No,  Mike ;  I'll  send  for  ye  to  cut  'im  up  an'  pack  'im." 

"  Now  ye  talk,"  said  Mike  ;  and  this  little  overture  of 
friendly  confidence  became  a  door  through  which  he  could 
enter  a  subject  more  profoundly  interesting  to  him  than  that 
which  related  to  his  favorite  quadruped. 

"What  kind  of  an  owld  woman  have  ye  got,  Jim?  Jist 
open  yer  heart  like  a  box  o'  tobacky,  Jim,  an'  lit  me  hilp  ye. 
There's  no  man  as  knows  more  about  a  woman  nor  Mike  Con- 
lin.  Ah,  Jim!  ye  ought  to  'ave  seed  me  wid  thegirrls  in  the 
owld  counthry  !  They  jist  rin  afther  me  as  if  I'd  been  stalin* 
their  little  hearrts.  There  was  a  twilve-month  whin  they  tore 
the  very  coat  tails  aff  me  back.  Be  gorry  I  could  'ave  married 
me  whole  neighborhood,  an*  I  jist  had  to  marry  the  firrst  one 
I  could  lay  me  honest  hands  on,  an'  take  mesilf  away  wid  her 
to  Ameriky." 

This  was  too  much  for  Jim.  His  face  broadened  into  his 
old  smile. 

"  Mike,"  said  he,  "  ye  haven't  got  an  old  towel  or  a  hoss 
blanket  about  ye,  have  ye?  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  goin'  to  cry.'v 

"  An'  what  the  divil  be  ye  goin'  to  cry  for?" 

"  Well,  Mike,  this  is  a  world  o'  sorrer,  an'  when  a  feller 
comes  to  think  of  a  lot  o'  women  as  is  so  hard  pushed  that 
they  hanker  arter  Mike  Conlin,  it  fetches  me.  It's  worse  nor 
bein'  without  victuals,  an'  beats  the  cholery  out  o'  sight." 

"  Oh,  ye  blaggard  !  Can't  ye  talk  sinse  whin  yer  betthers 
is  thryin'  to  hilp  ye  ?  What  kind  of  an  owld  woman  have  ye 
got,  now?" 

"  Mike,"  said  Jim,  solemnly,  "ye  don't  know  what  ye're 
talkin'  about.  If  ye  did,  ye  wouldn't  call  her  an  old  woman. 
She's  a  lady,  Mike.  She  isn't  one  o'  your  kind,  an'  I  ain't 


292  SEVENOAKS. 

one  o'  your  kind,  Mike.  Can't  ye  see  there's  the  difference 
of  a  pig  atween  us?  Don't  ye  know  that  if  I  was  to  go  hazin" 
round  in  the  mornin'  without  no  clo'es  to  speak  on,  an'  takin' 
comfort  in  a  howlin'  pig,  that  I  shouldn't  be  up  to  keepin'  a 
hotel?  Don't  be  unreasonable;  and,  Mike,  don't  ye  never 
speak  to  me  about  my  old  woman.  That's  a  sort  o'  thing 
that  won't  set  on  her." 

Mike  shook  his  head  in  lofty  pity. 

"Ah,  Jim,  I  can  see  what  ye're  comin*  to.'1 

Then,  as  if  afraid  that  his  "  owld  woman  "  might  overheai 
his  confession,  he  bent  toward  Jim,  and  half  whispered : 

"  The  women  is  all  smarter  nor  the  men,  Jim ;  but  ye 
mustn't  let  'em  know  that  ye  think  it.  Ye've  got  to  call  'em 
yer  owld  women,  or  ye  can't  keep  'em  where  ye  want  'em. 
Be  gorry  !  I  wouldn't  let  me  owld  woman  know  what  I  think 
of  'er  fur  fifty  dollars.  I  couldn't  kape  me  house  over  me 
head  inny  time  at  all  at  all,  if  I  should  whishper  it.  She's  jist 
as  much  of  a  leddy  as  there  is  in  Sivenoaks,  bedad,  an'  I  have 
to  put  on  me  big  airs,  an'  thrash  around  wid  me  two  hands  in 
me  breeches  pockets,  an*  shtick  out  me  lips  like  a  lorrd,  an' 
promise  to  raise  the  divil  wid  her  whiniver  she  gits  a  fit  ov 
high  flyin' ,  an*  ye'll  have  to  do  the  same,  Jim,  or  jist  lay 
down  an'  let  'er  shtep  on  ye.  Git  a  good  shtart,  Jim.  Don't 
ye  gin  'er  the  bit  for  five  minutes.  She'll  rin  away  wid  ye. 
Ye  can't  till  me  anything  about  women." 

"  No,  nor  I  don't  want  to.  Now  you  jest  shut  up,  Mike. 
I'm  tired  a  hearin'  ye.  This  thing  about  women  is  one  as  has 
half  the  fun  of  it  in  larnin'  it  as  ye  go  along.  Ye  mean  well 
enough,  Mike,  but  yer  eddication  is  poor ;  an*  if  it's  all  the 
same  to  ye,  I'll  take  my  pudden  straight  an'  leave  yer  sarse 
for  them  as  likes  it." 

Jim's  utter  rejection  of  the  further  good  offices  of  Mike, 
in  the  endeavor  to  instruct  him  in  the  management  of  his 
future  relations  with  the  little  woman,  did  not  sink  very  deep 
into  the  Irishman's  sensibilities.  Indeed,  it  could  not  have 
done  so,  for  their  waters  were  shallow,  and,  as  at  this  moment 


SEVENOAKS.  293 

Mike's  *'  owld  woman  "  called  both  to  dinner,  the  difference 
was  forgotten  in  the  sympathy  of  hunger  and  the  satisfactions 
of  the  table. 

Jim  felt  that  he  was  undergoing  a  change — had  undergone 
one,  in  fact.  It  had  never  revealed  itself  to  him  so  fully  as  it 
did  during  his  conversation  with  Mike.  The  building  of  the 
hotel,  the  study  of  the  wants  of  another  grade  of  civilization 
than  that  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed,  the  frequent  con 
versations  with  Miss  Butterworth,  the  responsibilities  he  had 
assumed,  all  had  tended  to  lift  him;  and  he  felt  that  Mike 
Conlin  was  no  longer  a  tolerable  companion.  The  shallow- 
ness  of  the  Irishman's  mind  and  life  disgusted  him,  and  he 
knew  that  the  time  would  soon  come  when,  by  a  process  as 
natural  as  the  falling  of  the  leaves  in  autumn,  he  should  drop 
a  whole  class  of  associations,  and  stand  where  he  could  look 
down  upon  them — where  they  would  look  up  to  him.  The 
position  of  principal,  the  command  of  men,  the  conduct  of, 
and  the  personal  responsibility  for,  a  great  enterprise,  had 
given  him  conscious  growth.  His  old  life  and  his  old  associa 
tions  were  insufficient  to  contain  him. 

After  dinner  they  started  on,  for  the  first  time  accompanied 
by  Mike's  wife.  Before  her  marriage  she  had  lived  the  life 
common  to  her  class — that  of  cook  and  housemaid  in  the  fam 
ilies  of  gentlemen.  She  knew  the  duties  connected  with 
the  opening  of  a  house,  and  could  bring  ifs  machinery  into 
working  order.  She  could  do  a  thousand  things  that  a  man 
either  could  not  do,  or  would  not  think  of  doing  ;  and  Jim 
had  arranged  that  she  should  be  housekeeper  until  the  mistress 
of  the  establishment  should  be  installed  in  her  office. 

The  sun  had  set  before  they  arrived  at  the  river,  and  the 
boats  of  the  two  guides,  with  Jim's,  which  had  been  brought 
down  by  Mr.  Benedict,  were  speedily  loaded  with  the  furni 
ture,  and  Mike,  picketing  his  horses  for  the  night,  embarked 
with  the  rest,  and  all  slept  at  Number  Nine. 

In  three  days  Jim  was  to  be  married,  and  his  cage  was  ready 
for  his  bird.  The  stoop  with  its  "settle,"  the  ladder  for 


§94  SEVENOAKS. 

posies,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  morning-glories  were  already 
planted,  and  the  "cupalo,"  had  ceased  to  be  dreams,  ?nd  be 
come  realities.  Still,  it  all  seemed  a  dream  to  Jim.  He  waked 
in  the  morning  in  his  own  room,  and  wondered  whether  he 
were  not  dreaming.  He  went  out  upon  his  piazza.,  and  saw 
the  cabin  in  which  he  had  spent  so  many  nights  in  his  old 
simple  life,  then  went  off  and  looked  up  at  his  house  or  rangec. 
through  the  rooms,  and  experienced  the  emotion  of  regret  so 
common  to  those  in  similar  circumstances,  that  he  could 
never  again  be  what  he  had  been,  or  be  contented  with  what 
he  had  been — that  he  had  crossed  a  point  in  his  life  which 
his  retiring  feet  could  never  repass.  It  was  the  natural  reac 
tion  of  the  long  strain  of  expectation  which  he  had  expe 
rienced,  and  would  pass  away;  but  while  it  was  upon  him  he 
mourned  over  the  death  of  his  old  self,  and  the  hopeless 
obliteration  of  his  old  circumstances. 

Mr.  Balfour  had  been  written  to,  and  would  keep  his  promise 
to  be  present  at  the  wedding,  with  Mrs.  Balfour  and  the  boys. 
Sam  Yates,  at  Jim's  request,  had  agreed  to  see  to  the  preparation 
of  an  appropriate  outfit  for  the  bridegroom.  Such  invitations 
had  been  given  out  as  Miss  Butterworth  dictated,  and  the  Snow 
family  was  in  a  flutter  of  expectation.  Presents  of  a  humble 
and  useful  kind  had  been  pouring  in  upon  Miss  Butterworth 
for  days,  until,  indeed,  she  was  quite  overwhelmed.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  whole  village  were  in  a  conspiracy  of  beneficence. 
In  a  final  conference  with  Mrs.  Snow,  Miss  Butterworth  said  : 
"I  don't  know  at  all  how  he  is  going  to  behave,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  trouble  myself  about  it ;  he  shall  do  just  as  he 
pleases.  He  has  made  his  way  with  me,  and  if  he  is  good 
enough  for  me,  he  is  good  enough  for  other  people.  I'm  not 
going  to  badger  him  into  nice  manners,  and  I'm  going  to  be 
just  as  much  amused  with  him  as  anybody  is.  He  isn't  like 
other  people,  and  if  he  tries  to  act  like  other  people,  it  will  just 
spoil  him.  If  there's  anything  that  I  do  despise  above  board, 
it's  a  woman  trying  to  train  a  man  who  loves  her.  If  I  were 
the  man,  I  should  hate  her." 


CHAPTER   XXII* 

IN    WHICH    JIM    GETS    MARRIED,   THE    NEW    HOTEL    RECEIVES    ITS 
MISTRESS,  AND  BENEDICT  CONFERS  A  POWER  OF  ATTORNEY. 

THERE  was  great  commotion  in  the  little  Sevenoaks  tavern. 
It  was  Jim's  wedding  morning,  and  on  the  previous  evening 
there  had  been  a  sufficient  number  of  arrivals  to  fill  every 
/oom.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Balfour,  with  the  two  boys,  had  come 
in  in  the  evening  stage ;  Jim  and  Mr.  Benedict  had  arrived 
from  Number  Nine.  Friends  of  Miss  Butterworth  from  ad 
joining  towns  had  come,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  the  ceremony 
of  the  morning.  Villagers  had  thronged  the  noisy  bar-roorn 
until  midnight,  scanning  and  discussing  the  strangers,  and 
speculating  upon  the  event  which  had  called  them  together. 
Jim  had  moved  among  them,  smiling,  and  returning  their 
good-natured  badinage  with  imperturbable  coolness,  so  far  as 
appearances  went,  though  he  acknowledged  to  Mr.  Balfour 
that  he  felt  very  much  as  he  did  about  his  first  moose. 

"I  took  a  good  aim/*  said  he,  "restin'  acrost  a  stump,  but 
the  stump  was  oneasy  like ;  an*  then  I  blazed  away,  an'  when 
I  obsarved  the  moose  sprawlin',  I  was  twenty  feet  up  a  tree, 
with  my  gun  in  the  snow;  an'  if  they  don't  find  me  settin'  on 
the  parson's  chimbly  about  nine  o'clock  to-morrer  morning 
it  won't  be  on  account  o'  my  not  bein'  skeered." 

But  the  wedding  morning  had  arrived.  Jim  had  had  an 
uneasy  night,  with  imperfect  sleep  and  preposterous  dreams. 
He  had  been  pursuing  game.  Sometimes  it  was  a  bear  that 
attracted  his  chase,  sometimes  it  was  a  deer,  sometimes  it  was 
a  moose,  but  all  the  time  it  was  Miss  Butterworth,  flying  and 
looking  back,  with  robes  and  ribbons  vanishing  among  th* 


296  SEVENOAKS. 

distant  trees,  until  he  shot  and  killed  her,  and  then  he  woke 
in  a  great  convulsion  of  despair,  to  hear  the  singing  of  the 
early  birds,  and  to  the  realization  of  the  fact  that  his  days  of 
bachelor  life  were  counted. 

Mr.  Benedict,  with  his  restored  boy  in  his  arms,  occupied 
the  room  next  to  his,  a  door  opening  between  them.  Both 
were  awake,  and  were  busy  with  their  whispered  confidences, 
when  they  became  aware  that  Jim  was  roused  and  on  his  feet. 
In  a  huge  bundle  on  the  table  lay  Jim's  wedding  garments, 
which  he  eyed  from  time  to  time  as  he  busied  himself  at  his 
bath. 

*  Won't  ye  be  a  purty  bird  with  them  feathers  on  !  This 
makin'  crows  into  bobolinks' 11  do  for  oncet,  but,  my!  won't 
them  things  spin  when  I  git  into  the  woods  agin  ?  " 

Benedict  and  Harry  knew  Jim's  habit,  and  the  measure  of 
excitement  that  was  upon  him,  and  lay  still,  expecting  to  be 
amused  by  his  soliloquies.  Soon  they  heard  him  say : 

"Oh,  lay  down,  lay  down,  lay  down,  ye  misable  old 
mop  !  " 

It  was  an  expression  of  impatience  and  disgust. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jim?"  Mr.  Benedict  called. 

"  Here's  my  har,"  responded  Jim,  "actin'  as  if  it  was  a 
piece  o'  woods  or  a  hay-lot,  an'  there  ain't  no  lodgin'  it  with 
nothin'  short  of  a  harricane.  I've  a  good  mind  to  git  it 
shingled  and  san* -papered." 

Then,  shifting  his  address  to  the  object  of  his  care  and 
anxiety,  he  went  on : 

"  Oh,  stick  up,  stick  up,  if  you  want  to  !  Don't  lay  down 
on  my  'count.  ?  rhaps  ye  want  to  see  what's  goin'  on. 
P'rhaps  ye 're  goin'  to  stand  up  with  me.  P'  rhaps  ye  want  to 
skeer  somebody's  hosses.  If  I  didn't  look  no  better  nor  you, 
I  sh'd  want  to  lay  low ;  an',  if  I'd  'a  slep  as  poor  as  ye  did  last 
night,  I'd  lop  down  in  the  fust  bed  o'  bear's  grease  I  could 
find.  Hain't  ye  got  no  manners?" 

This  was  too  much  for  Harry,  who,  in  his  happy  mood, 
burst  into  the  merriest  laughter. 


SEVENOAKS.  297 

This  furnished  Jim  with  just  the  apology  he  wanted  for  a 
frolic,  and  rushing  into  the  adjoining  bed-room,  he  pulled 
Harry  from  his  bed,  seated  him  on  the  top  of  his  head,  and 
marched  with  him  struggling  and  laughing  about  the  room. 
After  he  had  performed  sundry  acrobatic  feats  with  him,  he 
carried  him  back  to  his  bed.  Then  he  returned  to  his  room, 
and  entered  seriously  upon  the  task  of  arraying  himself  in  his 
wedding  attire.  To  get  on  his  collar  and  neck-tie  properly, 
he  was  obliged  to  call  for  Mr.  Benedict's  assistance. 

Jim  was  already  getting  red  in  the  face. 

"  What  on  arth  folks  want  to  tie  theirselves  up  in  this  way 
for  in  hot  weather,  is  more  nor  I  know,"  he  said.  "  How  do 
ye  s'pose  them  Mormons  live,  as  is  doin'  this  thing  every 
three  days?" 

Jim  asked  this  question  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  patiently 
waiting  the  result  of  Mr.  Benedict's  manipulations  at  hia 
throat.  When  he  could  speak  again,  he  added  : 

"  I  vow,  if  I  was  doin'  a  big  business  in  this  line,  I'd  git 
some  tin  things,  an'  have  'em  soddered  on,  an'  sleep  in  'em.'' 

This  sent  Harry  into  another  giggle,  and,  with  many  solilo* 
quies  and  much  merriment,  the  dressing  in  both  rooms  went 
on,  until,  in  Jim's  room,  all  became  still.  When  Benedic* 
and  his  boy  had  completed  their  toilet,  they  looked  in  upon 
Jim,  and  found  him  dressed  and  seated  on  his  trunk. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Fenton,"  said  Benedict,  cheerfully. 

Jim,  who  had  been  in  deep  thought,  looked  up,  and  said : 

"Do  ye  know  that  that  don't  seem  so  queer  to  me  as  it 
used  to  ?  It  seems  all  right  fur  pertickler  friends  to  call  me 
Jim,  but  clo'es  is  what  puts  the  Mister  into  a  man.  I  felt  it 
comin'  when  I  looked  into  the  glass.  Says  I  to  myself:  'Jim, 
that's  Mr.  Fenton  as  is  now  afore  ye.  Look  at  'im  sharp, 
so  that,  if  so  be  ye  ever  seen  'im  agin'  ye'll  know  'im.'  I 
never  knowed  exactly  where  the  Mister  come  from  afore.  Ye 
have  to  be  measured  for't.  A  pair  o'  shears,  an'  a  needle  an* 
thread,  an*  a  hot  goose  is  what  changes  a  man  into  a  Mister. 
It's  a  nice  thing  to  find  out,  but  it's  uncomf  table.  It  ain't 

12* 


298  SEVENOAKS. 

so  bad  as  it  would  be  if  ye  couldn't  strip  it  off  when  ye  git 
tired  on't,  an'  it's  a  good  thing  to  know." 

"Do  clothes  make  Belcher  a  gentleman?"  inquired  Mr. 
Benedict. 

"  Well,  it's  what  makes  him  a  Mister,  any  way.  When  ye 
git  his  clo'es  off  thar  ain't  nothin*  left  of  'im.  Dress  'im  up 
in  my  old  clo'es,  as  has  got  tar  enough  on  'em  to  paint  a 
boat,  an'  there  wouldn't  be  enough  man  in  'im  to  speak  to." 

How  long  Jim  would  have  indulged  in  his  philosophy  of 
the  power  of  dress  had  he  not  been  disturbed  will  never  be 
known,  for  at  this  moment  Mr.  Balfour  knocked  at  his  door, 
and  was  admitted.  Sam  Yates  followed,  and  both  looked  Jirn 
over  and  pronounced  him  perfect.  Even  these  familiar  friends 
felt  the  power  of  dress,  and  treated  Jim  in  a  way  to  which  he 
had  been  unaccustomed.  The  stalwart  figure,  developed  in 
every  muscle,  and  becomingly  draped,  was  well  calculated  to 
excite  their  admiration.  The  refractory  hair  which  had  given 
its  possessor  so  much  trouble,  simply  made  his  head  impres 
sive  and  picturesque.  There  was  a  man  before  them — humane, 
brave,  bright,  original.  All  he  wanted  was  culture.  Physical 
and  mental  endowments  were  in  excess,  and  the  two  men, 
trained  in  the  schools,  had  learned  to  love — almost  to  revere 
him.  Until  he  spoke,  they  did  not  feel  at  home  with  him  in 
his  new  disguise. 

They  all  descended  to  breakfast  together.  Jim  was  quiet 
under  the  feeling  that  his  clothes  were  an  unnatural  expression 
of  himself,  and  that  his  words  would  make  them  a  mockery. 
He  was  awed,  too,  by  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Balfour,  who  met 
him  at  the  table  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  The  sharp-eyed, 
smiling  Yankee  girls  who  waited  at  the  meal,  were  very  much 
devoted  to  Jim,  who  was  ashamed  to  receive  so  much  atten 
tion.  On  the  whole,  it  was  the  most  uncomfortable  breakfast 
he  had  ever  eaten,  but  his  eyes  were  quick  to  see  all  that  was 
done,  for  he  was  about  to  open  a  hotel,  and  wished  particu 
larly  to  learn  the  details  of  the  table  service. 

There   was  great   excitement,  too,  at  the  parsonage  thai 


SEVENOAKS.  299 

morning.  The  Misses  Snow  were  stirred  by  the  romance  of 
the  occasion.  They  had  little  enough  of  this  element  in  their 
Jives,  and  were  disposed  to  make  the  most  of  it  when  it  came. 
The  eldest  had  been  invited  to  accompany  the  bride  to  Num 
ber  Nine,  and  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her  there.  As  this  was 
accounted  a  great  privilege  by  the  two  younger  sisters,  they 
quietly  shelved  her,  and  told  her  that  they  were  to  have  their 
own  way  at  home ;  so  Miss  Snow  became  ornamental  and 
critical.  Miss  Butterworth  had  spent  the  night  with  her,  and 
they  had  talked  like  a  pair  of  school-girls  until  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning.  The  two  younger  girls  had  slept  together, 
and  discussed  at  length  the  duties  of  their  respective  offices. 
One  was  to  do  the  bride's  hair  and  act  as  the  general  super 
visor  of  her  dress,  the  other  was  to  arrange  the  flowers  and 
take  care  of  the  guests.  Miss  Butterworth' s  hair  was  not 
oeautiful,  and  how  it  was  to  be  made  the  most  of  was  the  great 
question  that  agitated  the  hair-dresser.  All  the  possibilities 
of  braid  and  plait  and  curl  were  canvassed.  If  she  only  had 
a  switch,  a  great  triumph  could  be  achieved,  but  she  had 
none,  and,  what  was  worse,  would  have  none.  A  neighbor 
had  sent  in  a  potted  white  rose,  full  of  buds  and  bloom,  and 
over  this  the  sisters  quarreled.  The  hair  would  not  be  com 
plete  without  the  roses,  and  the  table  would  look  "  shameful  " 
if  the  pot  did  not  stand  upon  it,  unshorn  of  a  charm.  The 
.hair-dresser  proposed  that  the  stems  which  she  was  bent  on 
despoiling  should  have  some  artificial  roses  tied  to  them,  but 
the  disgraceful  project  was  rejected  with  scorn.  They  wran 
gled  over  the  dear  little  rose-bush  and  its  burden  until  they 
went  to  sleep — the  one  to  dream  that  Miss  Butterworth  had 
risen  in  the  morning  with  a  new  head  of  hair  that  reached  to 
her  knee,  in  yhose  luxuriance  she  could  revel  with  intermina 
ble  delight,  and  the  o'her  that  the  house  was  filled  with  roses; 
that  they  sprouted  out  of  the  walls,  fluttered  with  beads  of 
dew  against  the  windows,  strewed  the  floor,  and  filled  trie  air 
with  odor. 

Miss  Butterworth  was  not  to  step  out  of  the  room — not  be 


3oo 

seen  by  any  mortal  eye — until  she  should  come  forth  as  a 
bride.  Miss  Snow  was  summarily  expelled  from  the  apart 
ment,  and  only  permitted  to  bring  in  Miss  Butterworth's 
breakfast,  while  her  self-appointed  lady's  maid  did  her  hair, 
and  draped  her  in  her  new  gray  silk. 

"  Make  just  as  big  a  fool  of  me,  my  dear,  as  you  choose, 'r 
said  the  prospective  bride  to  the  fussy  little  girl  who  fluttered 
about  her.  "It's  only  for  a  day,  and  I  don't  care." 

Such  patient  manipulation,  such  sudden  retirings  for  the 
tudy  of  effects,  such  delicious  little  experiments  with  a  curl, 
such  shifting  of  hair-pins,  such  dainty  adjustments  of  ruffles 
and  frills  as  were  indulged  in  in  that  little  room  can  only  be 
imagined  by  the  sex  familiar  with  them.  And  then,  in  the 
midst  of  it  all,  came  a  scream  of  delight  that  stopped  every, 
thing.  Mrs.  Balfour  had  sent  in  a  great  box  full  of  the  most 
exquisite  flowers,  which  she  had  brought  all  the  way  from  the 
city.  The  youngest  Miss  Snow  was  wild  with  her  new  wealth, 
and  there  were  roses  for  Miss  Butterworth's  hair,  and  her 
throat,  and  a  bouquet  for  her  hand.  And  after  this  came 
wonderful  accessions  to  the  refreshment  table.  Cake,  with 
Miss  Butterworth's  initials;  tarts,  marked  "Number  Nine," 
and  Charlotte  de  Russe,  with  a  "B"  and  an  "F"  hopelessly 
twisted  together  in  a  monogram.  The  most  excited  exclama 
tions  reached  Miss  Butterworth's  ears  in  her  imprisonment : 

"Goodness,  gracious  me  !" 

"  If  there  isn't  another  cake  as  big  as  a  flour  barrel !" 

"  Tell  your  mother  she's  an  angel.  She's  coming  down  to 
help  us  eat  it,  I  hope." 

"  Just  look  at  this  basket  of  little  cakes  !  I  was  saying  to 
mother  this  minute  that  that  was  all  we  wanted." 

So  the  good  things  came,  and  the  cheerful  givers  went,  and 
Miss  Butterworth  took  an  occasional  sip  at  her  coffee,  with  a 
huge  napkin  at  her  throat,  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  not  drawn 
forth  by  the  delicate  tortures  in  progress  upon  her  person. 
She  thought  of  her  weary  years  of  service,  her  watchings  by 
sick-beds,  her  ministry  to  the  poor,  her  long  loneliness,  and 


SEVEN  OAKS.  3cri 

acknowledged  to  herself  that  her  reward  had  come.  To  bb 
so  loved  and  petted,  and  cared  for,  and  waited  upon,  was 
payment  for  every  sacrifice  and  every  service,  and  she  felt 
that  she  and  the  world  were  at  quits. 

Before  the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet  were  given,  there 
was  a  tumult  at  the  door.  She  could  hear  new  voices.  The 
guests  were  arriving.  She  heard  laughter  and  merry  greetings ; 
and  still  they  poured  in,  as  if  they  had  come  in  a  procession. 
Then  there  was  a  hush,  followed  by  the  sound  of  a  carriage, 
the  letting  down  of  steps,  and  a  universal  murmur.  Jim  had 
arrived,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Balfour  and  the  boys.  They  had 
had  great  difficulty  in  getting  him  into  the  one  hackney 
coach  which  the  village  possessed,  on  account  of  his  wish  to 
ride  with  the  driver,  "a  feller  as  he  knowed;"  but  he  was 
overruled  by  Mrs.  Balfour,  who,  on  alighting,  took  his  arm. 
He  came  up  the  garden  walk,  smiling  in  the  faces  and  eyes 
of  those  gathered  around  the  door  and  clustered  at  the 
windows.  In  his  wedding  dress,  he  was  the  best  figure  in  the 
crowd,  and  many  were  the  exclamations  of  feminine  admira 
tion. 

On  entering  the  door,  he  looked  about  him,  saw  the  well- 
dressed  and  expectant  company,  the  dainty  baskets  of  flowers, 
the  bountifully  loaded  table  in  the  little  dining-room,  all  the 
preparations  for  his  day  of  happiness,  but  he  saw  nowhere  the 
person  who  gave  to  him  the  significance  of  the  occasion. 

Mr.  Snow  greeted  him  cordially,  and  introduced  him  to 
those  who  stood  near. 

11  Well,  parson,  where's  the  little  woman?"  he  said,  at  last, 
in  a  voice  so  loud  that  all  heard  the  startling  question.  Miss 
Butterworth  heard  him,  and  laughed. 

"Just  hear  him!"  she  exclaimed  to  the  busy  girl, 
whose  work  was  now  hurrying  to  a  close.  "  If  he  doesn't  as 
tonish  them  before  he  gets  through,  I  shall  be  mistaken.  I 
do  think  it's  the  most  ridiculous  thing.  Now  isn't  it !  The 
idea!" 

Miss  Snow,  in  the  general  character  of  outside  manager  and 


302  SEVEN  OAKS 

future  companion  of  the  bride,  hurried  to  Jim's  side  at  once, 
and  said : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Fenton!" 

"Jest  call  me  Jim." 

"No,  no,  I  won't.  Now,  Mr.  Fenton,  really  !  you  can't 
see  her  until  she  is  ready  !" 

"  Oh  can't  I  !"  and  Jim  smiled. 

Miss  Snow  had  the  impression,  prevalent  among  women, 
that  a  bridegroom  has  no  rights  so  long  as  they  can  keep  him 
out  of  them,  and  that  it  is  their  privilege  to  fight  him  up  to 
the  last  moment. 

"Now,  really,  Mr.  Fenton,  you  must  be  patient,"  she  said, 
in  a  whisper.  "  She  is  quite  delicate  this  morning,  and  she's 
going  to  look  so  pretty  that  you'll  hardly  know  her." 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "if  you've  got  a  ticket  into  the  place 
whar  she's  stoppin',  tell  her  that  kingdom-come  is  here  an' 
waitin'." 

A  ripple  of  laughter  went  around  the  circle,  and  Jim,  find 
ing  the  room  getting  a  little  close,  beckoned  Mr.  Snow  out  of 
the  doors.  Taking  him  aside  and  removing  his  hat,  he  said : 

"  Parson,  do  you  see  my  har?" 

"I  do,"  responded  the  minister,  good-naturedly. 

"  That  riz  last  night,"  said  Jim,  solemnly. 

"Is  it  possible?"  and  Mr.  Snow  looked  at  the  intractable 
pile  with  genuine  concern. 

"  Yes,  riz  in  a  dream.  I  thought  I'd  shot  'er.  I  was 
follerin'  'er  all  night.  Sometimes  she  was  one  thing,  an* 
sometimes  she  was  another,  but  I  drew  a  bead  on  'er,  an* 
down  she  went,  an'  up  come  my  har  quicker  nor  lightnin'. 
I  don't  s'pose  it  looks  very  purty,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"Have  you  tried  anything  on  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Snow 
with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  Yis,  everything  but  a  hot  flat  iron,  an'  I'm  a  little  afraid 
o*  that.  If  wust  comes  to  wust,  it'll  have  to  be  did,  though. 
It  may  warm  up  my  old  brains  a  little,  but  if  my  har  is  well 
sprinkled,  and  the  thing  is  handled  lively,  it'lljpay  for  try  in*. " 


SEVENOAKS.  303 

The  perfect  candor  and  coolness  of  Jim's  manner  were  too 
much  for  the  unsuspicious  spirit  of  the  minister,  who  thought 
it  all  very  strange.  He  had  heard  of  such  things,  but  this 
was  the  first  instance  he  had  ever  seen. 

"Parson,"  said  Jim,  changing  the  topic,  "what's  the 
damage  for  the  sort  o'  thing  ye' re  drivin'  at  this  mornin'  ?" 

"The  what?" 

"The  damage — what's  the — well — damage?  What  do  ye 
consider  a  fa'r  price?" 

"  Do  you  mean  the  marriage  fee?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  that's  what  ye  call  it." 

"  The  law  allows  us  two  dollars,  but  you  will  permit  me  to 
perform  the  ceremony  for  nothing.  It's  a  labor  of  love, 
Mr.  Fenton.  We  are  all  very  much  interested  in  Miss  Butter- 
worth,  as  you  see." 

"Well,  I'm  a  little  interested  in  'er  myself,  an' I'm  a 
goin'  to  pay  for  the  splice.  Jest  tuck  that  X  into  yer  jacket, 
an'  tell  yer  neighbors  as  ye've  seen  a  man  as  was  five  times 
better  nor  the  law." 

"You  are  very  generous." 

"No  ;  I  know  what  business  is,  though.  Ye  have  to  get 
somethin'  to  square  the  buryins  an'  baptizins  with.  When  a 
man  has  a  weddin',  he'd  better  pay  the  whole  thing  in  a 
lump.  Parsons  have  to  live,  but  how  the  devil  they  do  it  in 
Sevenoaks  is  more  nor  I  know." 

"Mr.  Fenton!  excuse  me!"  said  Mr.  Snow,  coloring, 
"  but  I  am  not  accustomed  to  hearing  language  of  that  kind." 

"  No,  I  s'pose  not,"  said  Jim,  who  saw  too  late  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake.  "Your  sort  o*  folks  knuckle  to  the  devil 
more  nor  I  do.  A  good  bein'  I  take  to,  but  a  bad  bein'  I'm 
careless  with;  an'  I  don't  make  no  more  o'  slingin'  his  name 
round  nor  I  do  kickin'  an  old  boot." 

Mr.  Snow  was  obliged  to  laugh,  and  half  a  dozen  others, 
«rho  had  gathered  about  them,  joined  in  a  merry  chorus. 

Then  Miss  Snow  came  out  and  whispered  to  her  father,  and 
gave  a  roguish  glance  at  Jim.  At  this  time  the  house  was  full, 


304  SEVENOAKS. 

the  little  yard  was  full,  and  there  was  a  crowd  oi  boys  at  the 
gate.  Mr.  Snow  took  Jim  by  the  arm  and  led  him  in.  They 
pressed  through  the  crowd  at  the  door,  Miss  Snow  making 
way  for  them,  and  so,  in  a  sort  of  triumphal  progress,  they 
went  through  the  room,  and  disappeared  in  the  apartment 
where  "the  little  woman,"  flushed  and  expectant,  waited  their 
arrival. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  more  surprised  as 
they  were  confronted  by  the  meeting.  Dress  had  wrought  its 
miracle  upon  both  of  them,  and  they  hardly  knew  each  other. 

"  Well,  little  woman,  how  fare  ye?  "  said  Jim,  and  he  ad 
vanced,  and  took  her  cheeks  tenderly  between  his  rough 
hands,  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,   don't!    Mr.   Fenton  !    You'll  muss  her  hair !"   ex 
claimed  the  nervous  little  lady's  maid  of  the  morning,  dancing 
about  the  object  of  her  delightful  toils  and  anxieties,  and  re 
adjusting  a  rose,  and  pulling  out  the  fold  of  a  ruffle. 

"A  purty  job  ye've  made  on't !  The  little  woman  '11  never 
look  so  nice  again,"  said  Jim. 

"Perhaps  I  shall — when  I'm  married  again,"  said  Miss 
Butterworth,  looking  up  into  Jim's  eyes,  and  laughing. 

"  Now,  ain't  that  sassy  !  "  exclaimed  Jim,  in  a  burst  of  ad 
miration.  "  That's  what  took  me  the  first  time  I  seen  'er." 

Then  Miss  Snow  Number  Two  came  in,  and  said  it  really 
was  time  for  the  ceremony  to  begin.  Such  a  job  as  she  had 
had  in  seating  people  ! 

Oh,  the  mysteries  of  that  little  room  !  How  the  people  out 
side  wondered  what  was  going  on  there !  How  the  girls  inside 
rejoiced  in  their  official  privileges  ! 

Miss  Snow  took  Jim  by  the  button-hole : 

"  Mr.  Fenton,  you  must  take  Miss  Butterworth  on  your  arm, 
you  know,  and  lead  her  in  front  of  the  sofa,  and  turn  around, 
and  face  father,  and  then  do  just  what  he  tells  you,  and  re 
member  that  there's  nothing  for  you  to  say:" 

The  truth  was,  that  they  were  all  afraid  that  Jim  would  not 
be  able  to  hold  his  tongue. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  305 

"Are  we  all  ready?"  inquired  Mr.  Snow,  in  a  pleasant, 
official  tone. 

All  were  ready,  and  then  Mr.  Snow,  going  out  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  was  followed  by  Jim  and  his  bride,  the  little  pro 
cession  being  completed  by  the  three  Misses  Snow,  who,  with 
a  great  deal  of  care  upon  their  faces,  slipped  out  of  the  door, 
one  after  another,  like  three  white  doves  from  a  window.  Mr. 
Snow  took  his  position,  the  pair  wheeled  and  faced  him,  and 
the  three  Misses  Snow  supported  Miss  Butterworth  as  im 
promptu  bridesmaids.  It  was  an  impressive  tableau,  and  when 
the  good  pastor  said :  "Let  us  pray,"  and  raised  his  thin, 
white  hands,  a  painter  in  search  of  a  subject  could  have  asked 
for  nothing  better. 

When,  at  the  close  of  his  prayer,  the  pastor  inquired  if  there 
were  any  known  obstacles  to  the  union  of  the  pair  before  him 
in  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony,  and  bade  all  objectors  to 
speak  then,  or  forever  after  hold  their  peace,  Jim  looked 
around  with  a  defiant  air,  as  if  he  would  like  to  see  the  man 
who  dared  to  respond  to  the  call.  No  one  did  respond,  and 
the  ceremony  proceeded. 

"James,"  said  Mr.  Snow. 

"Jest  call  me " 

Miss  Butterworth  pinched  Jim's  arm,  and  he  recalled 
Miss  Snow's  injunction  in  time  to  arrest  his  sentence  in  mid- 
passage. 

"James,"  the  pastor  repeated,  and  then  went  on  to  ask 
him,  in  accordance  with  the  simple  form  of  his  sect,  whether 
he  took  the  woman  whom  he  was  holding  by  the  hand  to  be 
his  lawful  and  wedded  wife,  to  be  loved  and  cherished  in 
sickness  and  health,  in  prosperity  and  adversity,  cleaving  to 
her,  and  to  her  only. 

"Parson,"  said  Jim,  "that's  jest  what  I'm  here  for." 

There  would  have  been  a  titter  if  any  other  man  had  said 
it,  but  it  was  so  strong  and  earnest,  and  so  much  in  character, 
that  hardly  a  smile  crossed  a  face  that  fronted  him. 

Then  "Keziah"  was  questioned  in  the  usual  form,  and 


300  SEVENOAKS. 

bowed  her  response,  and  Jim  and  the  little  woman  were  de* 
clared  to  be  one.  "  What  God  hath  joined  together,  let  not 
man  put  asunder." 

And  then  Mr.  Snow  raised  his  white  hands  again,  and  pro 
nounced  a  formal  benediction.  There  was  a  moment  of 
awkwardness,  but  soon  Che  pastor  advanced  with  his  congratu 
lations,  and  Mrs.  Snow  came  up,  and  the  three  Misses  Snow, 
and  the  Balfours,  and  the  neighbors ;  and  there  were  kisses 
and  hand-shakings,  and  good  wishes.  Jim  beamed  around 
upon  the  fluttering  and  chattering  groups  like  a  great,  good- 
natured  mastiff  upon  a  playful  collection  of  silken  spaniels  and 
;mart  terriers.  It  was  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life.  Even 
•vhen  standing  on  the  cupola  of  his  hotel,  surveying  his 
Achievements,  and  counting  his  possessions,  he  had  never  felt 
the  thrill  which  moved  him  then.  The  little  woman  was  his, 
and  his  forever.  His  manhood  had  received  the  highest  pub 
lic  recognition,  and  he  was  as  happy  as  if  it  had  been  the  im 
position  of  a  crown. 

"  Ye  made  purty  solemn  business  on't,  Parson,"  said  Jim. 
''It's  a  very  important  step,  Mr.  Fenton,"  responded  the 
Clergyman. 

"Step!"  exclaimed  Jim.  "That's  no  name  for't;  it's  a 
tfhole  trip.  But  I  sh'll  do  it.  When  I  said  it  I  meaned  it. 
[  sh'll  take  care  o'  the  little  woman,  and  atween  you  an'  I, 
Parson,  it's  about  the  best  thing  as  a  man  can  do.  Takin' 
care  of  a  woman  is  the  nateral  thing  for  a  man,  an'  no  man 
ain't  much  as  doesn't  do  it,  and  glad  o'  the  job." 

The  capacity  of  a  country  assembly  for  cakes,  pies,  and 
lemonade,  is  something  quite  unique,  especially  at  a  morning 
festival.  If  the  table  groaned  at  the  beginning,  it  sighed  at 
the  close.  The  abundance  that  asserted  itself  in  piles  of  dain 
ties  was  left  a  wreck.  It  faded  away  like  a  bank  of  snow 
before  a  drift  of  southern  vapor.  Jim,  foraging  among  the 
solids,  found  a  mince  pie,  to  which  he  devoted  himself. 

"This  is  the  sort  o'  thing  as  will  stan'  by  a  man  in  trouble/1 
said  he,  with  a  huge  piece  in  his  hand. 


SEVENOAKS.  307 

Then,  with  a  basket  of  cake,  he  vanished  from  the  house, 
and  distributed  his  burden  among  the  boys  at  the  gate. 

"  Boys,  I  know  ye're  hungry,  'cause  ye've  left  yer  break 
fast  on  yer  faces.  Now  git  this  in  afore  it  rains. ' ' 

The  boys  did  not  stand  on  the  order  of  the  service,  but 
helped  themselves  greedily,  and  left  his  basket  empty  in  a 
twinkling. 

"It  beats  all  nater,"  said  Jim,  looking  at  them  sympathe 
tically,  "how  much  boys  can  put  down  when  they  try.  If 
the  facks  could  be  knowed,  without  cuttin'  into  'em,  I'd  be 
willin'  to  bet  somethin'  that  their  legs  is  holler." 

While  Jim  was  absent,  the  bride's  health  was  drunk  in  a 
glass  of  lemonade,  and  when  he  returned,  his  own  health  was 
proposed,  and  Jim  seemed  to  feel  that  something  was  expected 
of  him. 

"My  good  frens,"  said  he,  "I'm  much  obleeged  to  ye. 
Ye  couldn't  'a'  treated  me  better  if  I'd  'a'  been  the  president 
of  this  country.  I  ain't  used  to  yer  ways,  but  I  know  when 
I'm  treated  well,  an'  when  the  little  woman  is  treated  well. 
I'm  obleeged  to  ye  on  her  'count.  I'm  a  goin'  to  take  'er 
into  the  woods,  an*  take  care  on  'er.  We  are  goin'  to  keep  a 
hotel — me  and  the  little  woman — an'  if  so  be  as  any  of  ye  is 
took  sick  by  overloadin'  with  cookies  'arly  in  the  day,  or 
bein'  thinned  out  with  lemonade,  ye  can  come  into  the 
woods,  an'  I'll  send  ye  back  happy." 

There  was  a  clapping  of  hands  and  a  flutter  of  handker 
chiefs,  and  a  merry  chorus  of  laughter,  and  then  two  vehicles 
drove  up  to  the  door.  The  bride  bade  a  tearful  farewell  to 
her  multitude  of  friends,  and  poured  out  her  thanks  to  the 
minister's  family,  and  in  twenty  minutes  thereafter,  two  happy 
loads  of  passengers  went  pounding  over  the  bridge,  and  off 
up  the  hill  on  the  way  to  Number  Nine.  The  horses  were 
strong,  the  morning  was  perfect,  and  Jim  was  in  possession 
of  hi^  bride.  They,  with  Miss  Snow,  occupied  one  carriage, 
while  Mr.  Benedict  and  the  Balfours  filled  the  other.  Not  a 
<nember  of  the  company  started  homeward  until  the  brida] 


3o8  SEVENOAKS. 

party  was  seen  climbing  the  hill  in  the  distance,  but  waited^ 
commenting  upon  the  great  event  of  the  morning,  and  specu 
lating  upon  the  future  of  the  pair  whose  marriage  they  had 
witnessed.  There  was  not  a  woman  in  the  crowd  who  did 
not  believe  in  Jim ;  and  all  were  glad  that  the  little  tailoress 
had  reached  so  pleasant  and  stimulating  a  change  in  her  life. 

When  the  voyagers  had  passed  beyond  the  scattered  farm' 
houses  into  the  lonely  country,  Jim,  with  his  wife's  help,  re 
leased  himself  from  the  collar  and  cravat  that  tormented  him, 
and  once  more  breathed  freely.  On  they  sped,  shouting  to 
one  another  from  carriage  to  carriage,  and  Mike  Conlin's 
humble  house  was  reached  in  a  two  hours'  drive.  There  was 
chaffing  at  the  door  and  romping  among  the  trees  while  the 
horses  were  refreshed,  and  then  they  pushed  on  again  with 
such  speed  as  was  possible  with  poorer  roads  and  soberei 
horses ;  and  two  hours  before  sunset  they  were  at  the  river. 
The  little  woman  had  enjoyed  the  drive.  When  she  found 
that  she  had  cut  loose  from  her  old  life,  and  was  entering  upon 
one  unknown  and  untried,  in  pleasant  companionship,  she 
was  thoroughly  happy.  It  was  all  like  a  fairy  story ;  and 
there  before  her  rolled  the  beautiful  river,  and,  waiting  on  the 
shore,  were  the  trunks  and  remnants  of  baggage  that  had  been 
started  for  their  destination  before  daylight,  and  the  guide* 
with  their  boats,  and  with  wild  flowers  in  their  hat -bands. 

The  carriages  were  dismissed  to  find  their  way  back  to  Mike 
Conlin's  that  night,  while  Jim,  throwing  off  his  coat,  assisted 
in  loading  the  three  boats.  Mr.  Balfour  had  brought  along 
with  him,  not  only  a  large  flag  for  the  hotel,  but  half  a  dozen 
smaller  ones  for  the  little  fleet.  The  flags  were  soon  mounted 
upon  little  rods,  and  set  up  at  either  end  of  each  boat,  and 
when  the  luggage  was  all  loaded,  and  the  passengers  were  all 
in  their  places — Jim  taking  his  wife  and  Miss  Snow  in  his  own 
familiar  craft — they  pushed  out  into  the  stream,  and  started 
for  a  race.  Jim  was  the  most  powerful  man  of  the  three,  and 
was  aching  for  work.  It  was  a  race  all  the  way,  but  the 
broader  chest  and  harder  muscles  won.  It  was  a  regatta  with- 


SEVENOAKS.  309 

out  spectators,  but  as  full  of  excitement  as  if  the  shores  had 
been  fringed  with  a  cheering  crowd. 

The  two  women  chatted  together  in  the  stern  of  Jim's  boat, 
or  sat  in  silence,  as  if  they  were  enchanted,  watching  the 
changing  shores,  while  the  great  shadows  of  the  woods  deep 
ened  upon  them.  They  had  never  seen  anything  like  it. 
It  was  a  new  world — God's  world,  which  man  had  not 
marred. 

At  last  they  heard  the  barking  of  a  dog,  and,  looking  far 
up  among  the  woods,  they  caught  the  vision  of  a  new  build 
ing.  The  boys  in  the  boats  behind  yelled  with  delight. 
Ample  in  its  dimensions  and  fair  in  its  outlines,  there  stooc 
the  little  woman's  home.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
hid  them  on  Miss  Snow's  shoulder. 

"  Be  yedisap'inted,  little  woman?"  inquired  Jim,  tenderly. 

"Oh,  no." 

"  Feelin's  a  little  too  many  fur  ye  ?" 

The  little  woman  nodded,  while  Miss  Snow  put  her  arm 
around  her  neck  and  whispered. 

"  A  woman  is  a  curi's  bein',"  said  Jim.  "  She  cries  when 
she's  tickled,  an'  she  laughs  when  she's  mad." 

"I'm  not  mad,"  said  the  little  woman,  bursting  into  a 
laugh,  and  lifting  her  tear -burdened  eyes  to  Jim. 

"An'  then,"  said  Jim,  "she  cries  and  laughs  all  to  oncet, 
an'  a  feller  don't  know  whether  to  take  off  his  jacket  or  put 
up  his  umberell." 

This  quite  restored  the  "  little  woman,"  and  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  merry  as  the  boat  touched  the  bank,  and  the  two 
women  were  helped  on  shore.  Before  the  other  boats  came 
ap,  they  were  in  the  house,  with  the  delighted  Turk  at  their 
heels,  and  Mike  Conlin's  wife  courtseying  before  them. 

It  was  a  merry  night  at  Number  Nine.  Jim's  wife  became 
the  mistress  at  once.  She  knew  where  everything  was  to  be 
found,  as  well  as  if  she  had  been  there  for  a  year,  and  played 
the  hostess  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Balfour  as  agreeably  as  if  her  life 
had  been  devoted  to  the  duties  of  her  establishment. 


3io  SEVENOAKS. 

Mr.  Balfour  could  not  make  a  long  stay  in  the  woods,  but 
had  determined  to  leave  his  wife  there  with  the  boys.  Hig 
business  was  pressing  at  home,  and  he  had  heard  something 
while  at  Sevenoaks  that  made  him  uneasy  on  Mr.  Benedict's 
account.  The  latter  had  kept  himself  very  quiet  while  at  the 
wedding,  but  his  intimacy  with  one  of  Mr.  Balfour's  boys  had 
been  observed,  and  there  w^re  those  who  detected  the  likeness 
of  this  boy,  though  much  changed  by  growth  and  better  con 
ditions,  to  the  little  Harry  Benedict  of  other  days.  Mr.  Bal 
four  had  overheard  the  speculations  of  the  villagers  on  the 
strange  Mr.  Williams  who  had  for  so  long  a  time  been  housed 
with  Jim  Fenton,  and  the  utterance  of  suspicions  that  he  was 
no  other  than  their  old  friend,  Paul  Benedict.  He  knew  that 
this  suspicion  would  be  reported  by  Mr.  Belcher's  agent  at 
once,  and  that  Mr.  Belcher  would  take  desperate  steps  to  secure 
x  himself  in  his  possessions.  What  form  these  measures  would 
take — whether  of  fraud  or  personal  violence — he  could  not 
tell. 

He  advised  Mr.  Benedict  to  give  him  a  power  of  attorney 
to  prosecute  Mr.  Belcher  for  the  sum  due  him  on  the  use  of 
his  inventions,  and  to  procure  an  injunction  on  his  further 
use  of  them,  unless  he  should  enter  into  an  agreement  to  pay 
such  a  royalty  as  should  be  deemed  equitable  by  all  the 
parties  concerned.  Mr.  Benedict  accepted  the  advice,  and 
the  papers  were  executed  at  once. 

Armed  with  this  document,  Mr.  Balfour  bade  good-bye  to 
Number  Nine  and  its  pleasant  company,  and  hastened  back 
to  the  city,  where  he  took  the  first  opportunity  to  report  to 
his  friends  the  readiness  of  Jim  to  receive  them  for  the 
rummer. 

It  would   be   pleasant   to   follow    them   into  their  forest 
pastimes,  but  more  stirring  and  important  matters  will  hold 
•i  :o  the  city. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  WHICH    MR.   BELCHER  EXPRESSES  HIS   DETERMINATION  TO 

BECOME  A  "  FOUNDER,"  BUT  DROPS  HIS  NOUN  IN 

FEAR  OF  A  LITTLE  VERB  OF  THE 

SAME  NAME. 

MRS.  DILLINGHAM  had  a  difficult  role  to  play.  She  could 
not  break  with  Mr.  Belcher  without  exposing  her  motives  and 
bringing  herself  under  unpleasant  suspicion  and  surveillance. 
She  felt  that  the  safety  of  her  protege  and  his  father  would  be 
best  consulted  by  keeping  peace  with  their  enemy ;  yet  every 
approach  of  the  great  scoundrel  disgusted  and  humiliated  her. 
That  side  of  her  nature  which  had  attracted  and  encouraged 
him  was  sleeping,  and,  under  the  new  motives  which  were  at 
work  within  her,  she  hoped  that  it  would  never  wake.  She 
looked  down  the  devious  track  of  her  past,  counted  over  its 
unworthy  and  most  unwomanly  satisfactions,  and  wondered. 
She  looked  back  to  a  great  wrong  which  she  had  once  inflicted 
on  an  innocent  man,  with  a  self-condemnation  so  deep  that 
all  the  womanhood  within  her  rose  into  the  purpose  of  repara 
tion. 

The  boy  whom  she  had  called  to  her  side,  and  fastened  by 
an  impassioned  tenderness  more  powerful  even  than  her  won 
derful  art,  hai1  become  to  her  a  fountain  of  pure  motives. 
She  had  a  right  to  love  this  child.  She  owed  a  duty  to  him 
beyond  any  woman  living.  Grasping  her  right,  and  acknow 
ledging  her  duty — a  right  and  duty  accorded  to  her  by  his 
nominal  protector — she  would  not  have  forfeited  them  for  the 
world.  They  soon  became  all  that  gave  significance  to  her 
existence,  and  to  them  she  determined  that  her  life  should  b« 

311 


SEVENOAKS. 

devoted.  To  stand  well  with  this  boy,  to  be  loved,  admired 
and  respected  by  him,  to  be  to  him  all  that  a  mother  could 
be,  to  be  guided  by  his  pure  and  tender  conscience  toward  her 
own  reformation,  to  waken  into  something  like  life  and  nour 
ish  into  something  like  strength  the  starved  motherhood  within 
her — these  became  her  dominant  motives. 

Mr.  Belcher  saw  the  change  in  her,  but  was  too  gross  in  his 
nature,  too  blind  in  his  passion,  and  too  vain  in  his  imagined 
power,  to  comprehend  it.  She  was  a  woman,  and  had  her 
whims,  he  thought.  Whims  were  evanescent,  and  this  parti 
cular  whim  would  pass  away.  He  was  vexed  by  seeing  the 
boy  so  constantly  with  her.  He  met  them  walking  together 
in  the  street,  or  straying  in  the  park,  hand  in  hand,  or  caught 
the  lad  looking  at  him  from  her  window.  He  could  not  doubt 
that  all  this  intimacy  was  approved  by  Mr.  Balfour.  Was  she 
playing  a  deep  game?  Could  she  play  it  for  anybody  but 
himself — the  man  who  had  taken  her  heart  by  storm  ?  Her  ac 
tions,  however,  even  when  interpreted  by  his  self-conceit,  gave 
him  uneasiness.  She  had  grown  to  be  very  kind  and  consider 
ate  toward  Mrs.  Belcher.  Had  this  friendship  moved  her  to 
crush  the  passion  for  her  husband  ?  Ah  !  if  she  could  only 
know  how  true  he  was  to  her  in  his  untruthfulness  ! — how 
faithful  he  was  to  her  in  his  perjury  ! — how  he  had  saved  him 
self  for  the  ever-vanishing  opportunity  ! 

Many  a  time  the  old  self-pity  came  back  to  the  successful 
scoundrel.  Many  a  time  he  wondered  why  the  fate  which 
had  been  so  kind  to  him  in  other  things  would  not  open  the 
door  to  his  wishes  in  this.  With  this  unrewarded  passion 
gnawing  at  his  heart,  and  with  the  necessity  of  treating  the 
wife  of  his  youth  with  constantly  increasing  consideration,  in 
order  to  cover  it  from  her  sight,  the  General  was  anything  but 
a  satisfied  and  happy  man.  The  more  he  thought  upon  it, 
the  more  morbid  he  grew,  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  wife 
must  look  through  his  hypocritical  eyes  into  his  guilty  heart. 
He  grew  more  and  more  guarded  in  his  speech.  If  he  men 
tioned  Mrs.  Dillingham's  name,  he  always  did  it  incidentally, 


SEVEN  OAKS.  313 

and  then  only  for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  he  had  no  rea 
son  to  avoid  the  mention  of  it. 

There  was  another  thought  that  preyed  upon  him.  He  was 
consciously  a  forger.  He  had  not  used  the  document  he  had 
forged,  but  he  had  determined  to  do  so.  Law  had  not  laid  its 
finger  upon  him,  but  its  finger  was  over  him.  He  had  not  yet 
crossed  the  line  that  made  him  legally  a  criminal,  but  the  line 
was  drawn  before  him,  and  only  another  step  would  be  neces 
sary  to  place  him  beyond  it.  A  brood  of  fears  was  gathering 
around  him.  They  stood  back,  glaring  upon  him  from  the 
distance  ;  but  they  only  waited  another  act  in  his  career  of 
dishonor  to  crowd  in  and  surround  him  with  menace.  Some 
times  he  shrank  from  his  purpose,  but  the  shame  of  being  im 
poverished  and  beaten  spurred  him  renewedly  to  determina 
tion.  He  became  conscious  that  what  there  was  of  bravery 
in  him  was  sinking  into  bravado.  His  self-conceit,  and  what 
little  he  possessed  of  self-respect,  were  suffering.  He  dimly 
apprehended  the  fact  that  he  was  a  rascal,  and  it  made  him 
uncomfortable.  It  ceased  to  be  enough  for  him  to  assure  him 
self  that  he  was  no  more  a  rascal  than  those  around  him.  He 
reached  out  on  every  side  for  means  to  maintain  his  self-respect. 
What  good  thing  could  he  do  to  counterbalance  his  bad  deeds? 
How  could  he  shore  himself  up  by  public  praise,  by  respecta 
ble  associations,  by  the  obligations  of  the  public  for  deeds  of 
beneficence  ?  It  is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  the 
dishonest  steward,  who  cheats  his  lord,  to  undertake  to  win 
consideration  against  contingencies  with  his  lord's  money. 

On  the  same  evening  in  which  the  gathering  at  the  Seven- 
oaks  tavern  occurred,  preceding  Jim's  wedding,  Mr.  Belcher 
sat  in  his  library,  looking  over  the  document  which  nominally 
conveyed  to  him  the  right  and  title  of  Paul  Benedict  to  his 
inventions.  He  had  done  this  many  times  since  he  had  forged 
three  of  the  signatures,  and  secured  a  fraudulent  addition  to 
the  number  from  the  hand  of  Phipps.  He  had  brought  him 
self  to  believe,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  their  genuineness,  and 
was  wholly  sure  that  they  were  employed  on  behalf  of  justice. 

14 


3i4  SEVEN  OAKS. 

The  inventions  had  cost  Benedict  little  or  no  money,  and  he, 
Mr.  Belcher,  had  developed  them  at  his  own  risk.  Without 
his  money  and  his  enterprise  they  would  have  amounted  tcr 
nothing.  If  Benedict  had  not  lost  his  reason,  the  document 
would  have  been  legally  signed.  The  cause  of  Benedict's  lapse 
from  sanity  did  not  occur  to  him.  He  only  knew  that  if  the 
inventor  had  not  become  insane,  he  should  have  secured  his 
signature  at  some  wretched  price,  and  out  of  this  conviction 
he  reared  his  self-justification. 

"It's  right!"  said  Mr.  Belcher.  " The  State  prison  may 
be  in  it,  but  it's  right!" 

And  then,  confirming  his  foul  determination  by  an  oath,  he 
added : 

"I'll  stand  by  it." 

Then  he  rang  his  bell,  and  called  for  Phipps. 

"Phipps,"  said  he,  as  his  faithful  and  plastic  servitor  ap 
peared,  "come  in,  and^close  the  door." 

When  Phipps,  with  a  question  in  his  face,  walked  up  to 
where  Mr.  Belcher  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  the  forged 
document  before  him,  the  latter  said  : 

"  Phipps,  did  you  ever  see  this  paper  before?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Now,  think  hard — don't  be  in  a  hurry — and  tell  me  wher 
you  saw  it  before.  Take  it  in  your  hand,  and  look  it  all  over> 
and  be  sure." 

"I  can't  tell,  exactly,"  responded  Phipps,  scratching  his 
Iliad;  "but  I  should  think  it  might  have  been  six  years 
ago,  or  more.  It  was  a  long  time  before  we  came  from 
Sevenoaks." 

"  Very  well ;  is  that  your  signature  ?" 

"It  is,  sir." 

"Did  you  see  Benedict  write  his  name?  Did  you  see 
Johnson  and  Ramsey  write  their  names  ?' ' 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  Do  you  remember  all  the  circumstances — what  I  said  to 
you,  and  what  you  said  to  me — why  you  were  in  the  room?" 


SEVENOAKS.  315 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Phipps,  do  you  know  that  if  it  is  ever  found  out  that  you 
have  signed  that  paper  within  a  few  weeks,  you  are  as  good  as 
a  dead  man?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir,"  replied  Phipps,  in 
evident  alarm. 

"  Do  you  know  that  that  signature  is  enough  to  send  you    . 
to  the  State  prison?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Well,  Phipps,  it  is  just  that,  provided  it  isn't  stuck  to. 
You  will  have  to  swear  to  it,  and  stand  by  it.  I  know  the  thing 
is  coming.  I  can  feel  it  in  my  bones.  Why  it  hasn't  come 
before,  the  Lord  only  knows." 

Phipps  had  great  faith  in  the  might  of  money,  and  entire 
faith  in  Mr.  Belcher's  power  to  save  him  from  any  calamity. 
His  master,  during  all  his  residence  with  and  devotion  to  him, 
had  shown  himself  able  to  secure  every  end  he  had  sought, 
and  he  believed  in  him,  or  believed  in  his  power,  wholly. 

"  Couldn't  you  save  me,  sir,  if  I  were  to  get  into  trouble?" 
he  inquired,  anxiously. 

"That  depends  upon  whether  you  stand  by  me,  Phipps. 
It's  just  here,  my  boy.  If  you  swear,  through  thick  and  thin, 
that  you  saw  these  men  sign  this  paper,  six  years  ago  or  more, 
that  you  signed  it  at  the  same  time,  and  stand  by  your  own 
signature,  you  will  sail  through  all  right,  and  do  me  a  devilish 
good  turn.  If  you  balk,  or  get  twisted  up  in  your  own  reins, 
or  thrown  off  your  seat,  down  goes  your  house.  If  you  stand 
by  me,  I  shall  stand  by  you.  The  thing  is  all  right,  and  just 
as  it  ought  to  be,  but  it's  a  little  irregular.  It  gives  me  what 
belongs  to  me,  but  the  law  happens  to  be  against  it." 

Phipps  hesitated,  and  glanced  suspiciously,  and  even  me 
nacingly,  at  the  paper.  Mr.  Belcher  knew  that  he  would  like 
to  tear  it  in  pieces,  and  so,  without  unseemly  haste,  he  picked 
it  up,  placed  it  in  its  drawer,  locked  it  in,  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket. 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  into  trouble,"  said  Phipps. 


|t6  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"Phipps,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  "1 
don't  intend  that  you  shall  get  into  trouble." 

Then,  rising,  and  patting  his  servant  on  the  shoulder,  he 
added: 

"  But  it  all  depends  on  your  standing  by  me,  and  standing 
by  yourself.  You  know  that  you  will  lose  nothing  by  stand 
ing  by  the  General,  Phipps;  you  know  me." 

Phipps  was  not  afraid  of  crime ;  he  was  only  afraid  of  its 
possible  consequences ;  and  Mr.  Belcher's  assurance  of  safety 
provided  he  should  remember  his  story  and  adhere  to  it,  was 
all  that  he  needed  to  confirm  him  in  the  determination  to  do 
what  Mr.  Belcher  wished  him  to  do. 

After  Phipps  retired,  Mr.  Belcher  took  out  his  document 
again,  and  looked  it  over  for  the  hundredth  time.  He  re- 
compared  the  signatures  which  he  had  forged  with  their  origi 
nals.  Consciously  a  villain,  he  regarded  himself  still  as  a 
man  who  was  struggling  for  his  rights.  But  something  of  his 
old,  self-reliant  courage  was  gone.  He  recognized  the  fact 
that  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  more  powerful  than 
himself.  The  law  was  against  him.  Single-handed,  he  could 
meet  men ;  but  the  great  power  which  embodied  the  justice 
and  strength  of  the  State  awed  him,  and  compelled  him  into 
a  realization  of  his  weakness. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Belcher  received  his  brokers  and 
operators  in  bed  in  accordance  with  his  custom.  He  was  not 
good-natured.  His  operations  in  Wall  street  had  not  been 
prosperous  for  several  weeks.  In  some  way,  impossible  to  be 
foreseen  by  himself  or  his  agents,  everything  had  worked 
against  him.  He  knew  that  if  he  did  not  rally  from  this  pas 
sage  of  ill-luck,  he  would,  in  addition  to  his  loss  of  money, 
lose  something  of  his  prestige.  He  had  a  stormy  time  with 
his  advisers  and  tools,  swore  a  great  deal,  and  sent  them  off  in 
anything  but  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind. 

Talbot  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  when  the  brokers 
retired,  and  followed  his  card  upstairs,  where  he  found  hii 
principal  wiin  an  ugly  frown  upon  £is 


SEVENOAKS. 

•* Toll,"  he  whimpered,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you.  You're 
the  best  of  'em  all,  and  in  the  long  run,  you  bring  me  thf 
most  money." 

"  Thank  you,"  responded  the  factor,  showing  his  white 
teeth  in  a  gratified  smile. 

"  Toll,  I'm  not  exactly  ill,  but  I'm  not  quite  myself.  How 
long  it  will  last  I  don't  know,  but  just  this  minute  the  General 
is  devilish  unhappy,  and  would  sell  himself  cheap.  Things 
are  not  going  right.  I  don't  sleep  well." 

"  You've  got  too  much  money,"  suggested  Mr.  Talbot. 

"  Well,  what  shall  I  do  with  it?" 

"Give  it  to  me." 

"No,  I  thank  you;  I  can  do  better.  Besides,  you  are 
getting  more  than  your  share  of  it  now." 

"Well,  I  don't  ask  it  of  you,"  said  Talbot,  "but  if  you 
wish  to  get  rid  of  it,  I  could  manage  a  little  more  of  it  with 
out  trouble." 

"  Toll,  look  here !  The  General  wants  to  place  a  little 
money  where  it  will  bring  him  some  reputation  with  the 
highly  respectable  old  dons, — our  spiritual  fathers,  you  know 
— and  the  brethren.  Understand?" 

"  General,  you  are  deep ;  you'll  have  to  explain." 

"  Well,  all  our  sort  of  fellows  patronize  something  or  other. 
They  cheat  a  man  out  of  his  eye-teeth  one  day,  and  the  next,  t 
you  hear  of  them  endowing  something  or  other,  or  making  a 
speech  to  a  band  of  old  women,  or  figuring  on  a  top-lofty  list 
of  directors.     That's  the  kind  of  thing  I  want." 

"  You  can  get  any  amount  of  it,  General,  by  paying  for  it. 
All  they  want  is  money;  they  don't  care  where  it  comes 
from." 

"  Toll,  shut  up.  I  behold  a  vision.  Close  your  eyes  now, 
and  let  me  paint  it  for  you.  I  see  the  General — General 
Robert  Belcher,  the  millionaire — in  the  aspect  of  a  great  pub 
lic  benefactor.  He  is  dressed  in  black,  and  sits  upon  a  plat 
form,  in  the  midst  of  a  lot  of  seedy  men  in  white  chokers. 
They  hand  him  a  programme.  There  is  speech-making  going 


31$  SEVENOAKS. 

on,  and  every  speech  makes  an  allusion  to  '  our  oenefactor,' 
and  the  brethren  and  sisters  cheer.  The  General  bows. 
High  old  doctors  of  divinity  press  up  to  be  introduced. 
They  are  all  after  more.  They  flatter  the  General ;  they 
coddle  him.  They  give  him  the  highest  seat.  They  pretend 
to  respect  him.  They  defend  him  from  all  slanders.  They 
V  are  proud  of  the  General.  He  is  their  man.  I  look  into 
the  religious  newspapers,  and  in  one  column  I  behold  a  curse 
on  the  stock-jobbing  of  Wall  street,  and  in  the  next,  the 
praise  of  the  beneficence  of  General  Robert  Belcher.  I  see 
the  General  passing  down  Wall  street  the  next  day.  I  see 
him  laughing  out  of  the  corner  of  his  left  eye,  while  his 
friends  punch  him  in  the  ribs.  Oh,  Toll !  it's  delicious ! 
Where  are  your  feelings,  my  boy?  Why  don't  you  cry?" 

"  Charming  picture,  General !  Charming  !  but  my  hand 
kerchief  is  fresh,  and  I  must  save  it.  I  may  have  a  cold 
before  night." 

"  Well,  now,  Toll,  what's  the  thing  to  be  done  ?  " 

"What  do  you  say  to  soup-kitchens  for  the  poor?  They 
don't  cost  so  very  much,  and  you  get  your  name  in  the 
papers." 

"  Soup-kitchens  be  hanged  !  That's  Mrs.  Belcher's  job. 
Besides,  I  don't  want  to  get  up  a  reputation  for  helping  the 
poor.  They're  a  troublesome  lot  and  full  of  bother ;  I  don't 
believe  in  'em.  They  don't  associate  you  with  anybody  but 
themselves.  What  I  want  is  to  be  in  the  right  sort  of  a  crowd. " 

"  Have  you  thought  of  a  hospital?  " 

"Yes,  I've  thought  of  a  hospital,  but  I  don't  seem  to  han 
ker  after  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  hospitals  are  pretty  well 
taken  up  already.  I  might  work  into  a  board  of  directors  by 
paying  enough,  I  suppose,  but  it  is  too  much  the  regular 
thing.  What  I  want  is  ministers — something  religious,  you 
know." 

"  You  might  run  a  church-choir,"  suggested  Talbot,  "  or, 
better  than  that,  buy  a  church,  and  turn  the  crank." 

"Yes,  but  they  are  not  quite  large  enough.     I  tell  you 


SEVENOAKS.  319 

what  it  is,  Toll,  I  believe  I'm  pining  for  a  theological  semi 
nary.  Ah,  my  heart !  my  heart !  If  I  could  only  tell  you, 
Toll,  how  it  yearns  over  the  American  people !  Can't  you  see, 
my  boy,  that  the  hope  of  the  nation  is  in  educated  ar.d  de 
voted  young  men?  Don't  you  see  that  we  are  going  to  the 
devil  with  our  thirst  for  filthy  lucre?  Don't  you  understand 
how  noble  a  thing  it  would  be  for  one  of  fortune's  favorites 
to  found  an  institution  with  his  wealth,  that  would  bear  down 
its  blessings  to  unborn  millions  ?  What  if  that  institution 
should  also  bear  his  name  ?  What  if  that  name  should  be  for 
ever  associated  with  that  which  is  most  hallowed  in  our  na 
tional  history?  Wouldn't  it  pay?  Eh,  Toll?" 

Mr.  Talbot  laughed. 

"  General,  your  imagination  will  be  the  death  of  you,  but 
there  is  really  nothing  impracticable  in  your  plan.  All  these 
fellows  want  is  your  money.  They  will  give  you  everything 
you  want  for  it  in  the  way  of  glory." 

"  I  believe  you  ;  and  wouldn't  it  be  fun  for  the  General? 
I  vow  I  must  indulge.  I'm  getting  tired  of  horses;  and  these 
confounded  suppers  don't  agree  with  me.  It's  a  theological 
seminary  or  nothing.  The  tides  of  my  destiny,  Toll — you 
understand — the  tides  of  my  destiny  tend  in  that  direction, 
and  I  resign  my  bark  to  their  sway.  I'm  going  to  be  a 
founder,  and  I  feel  better  already." 

It  was  well  that  he  did,  for  at  this  moment  a  dispatch  was 
handed  in  which  gave  him  a  shock,  and  compelled  him  to  ask 
Talbot  to  retire  while  he  dressed. 

"  Don't  go  away,  Toll,"  he  said ;  "  I  want  to  see  you  again." 

The  dispatch  that  roused  the  General  from  his  dream  of 
beneficence  was  from  his  agent  at  Sevenoaks,  and  read  thus : 
"  Jim  Fenton's  wedding  occurred  this  morning.  He  was  ac 
companied  by  a  man  whom  several  old  citizens  firmly  believe 
to  be  Paul  Benedict,  though  he  passed  under  another  name. 
Balfour  and  Benedict's  boy  were  here,  and  all  are  gone  up  to 
Number  Nine.  Will  write  particulars." 

The  theological  seminary  passed  at  once  into  the  realm  of 


3  to  SEVEN  OAKS. 

dimly  remembered  dreams,  to  be  recalled  or  forgotten  as  cir 
cumstances  should  determine.  At  present,  there  was  some 
thing  else  to  occupy  the  General* s  mind. 

Before  he  had  completed  his  toilet,  he  called  for  Talbot. 

"Toll,"  said  he,  "  if  you  were  in  need  of  legal  advice  of 
the  best  kind,  and  wanted  to  be  put  through  a  thing  straight, 
whether  it  were  right  or  not,  to  whom  would  you  apply  ?  Now 
mind,  I  don't  want  any  milksops." 

"  I  know  two  or  three  lawyers  here  who  have  been  through  a 
theological  seminary,"  Talbot  responded,  with  a  knowing 
smile. 

"  Oh,  get  out  I  There's  no  joke  about  this.  I  mean  business 
now." 

"  Well,  I  took  pains  to  show  you  your  man,  at  my  house, 
once.  Don't  you  remember  him?  " 

"Cavendish?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  don't  like  him." 

"  Nor  do  I.     He'll  bleed  you ;  but  he's  your  man." 

"All  right ;  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  Get  into  my  coupe,  and  I'll  take  you  to  his  office." 

Mr.  Belcher  went  to  the  drawer  that  contained  his  forged 
document.  Then  he  went  back  to  Talbot,  and  said : 

"  Would  Cavendish  come  here?  " 

"  Not  he !  If  you  want  to  see  him,  you  must  go  where  he 
is.  He  wouldn't  walk  into  your  door  to  accommodate  you  if 
he  knew  it." 

Mr.  Belcher  was  afraid  of  Cavendish,  as  far  as  he  could  be 
afraid  of  any  man.  The  lawyer  had  bluffed  everybody  at  the 
dinner-party,  and,  in  his  way,  scoffed  at  everybody.  He  had 
felt  in  the  lawyer's  presence  the  contact  of  a  nature  which 
possessed  more  self-assertion  and  self-assurance  than  his  own. 
He  had  felt  that  Cavendish  could  read  him,  could  handle  him, 
could  see  through  his  schemes.  He  shrank  from  exposing 
himself,  even  to  the  scrutiny  of  this  sharp  man,  whom  he 
could  hire  for  any  service.  But  he  went  again  to  the  drawer, 


SEVENOAKS.  321 

and,  with  an  excited  and  trembling  hand,  drew  forth  the  ac 
cursed  document.  With  this  he  took  the  autographs  on  which 
his  forgeries  were  based.  Then  he  sat  down  by  himself,  and 
thought  the  matter  all  over,  while  Talbot  waited  in  another 
room.  It  was  only  by  a  desperate  determination  that  he 
started  at  last,  called  Talbot  down  stairs,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
went  out. 

It  seemed  to  the  proprietor,  as  he  emerged  from  his  house, 
that  there  was  something  weird  in  the  morning  light.  He 
looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  sky  was  clear.  He  looked  down, 
and  the  street  was  veiled  in  a  strange  shadow.  The  boys 
looked  at  him  as  if  they  were  half  startled.  Inquisitive  faces 
peered  at  him  from  a  passing  omnibus.  A  beggar  laughed  as 
he  held  out  his  greasy  hat.  Passengers  paused  to  observe  him. 
All  this  attention,  which  he  once  courted  and  accepted  as 
flattery  and  fame,  was  disagreeable  to  him. 

''Good  God  1  Toll,  what  has  happened  since  last  night?" 
he  said,  as  he  sank  back  upon  the  satin  cushions  of  the  coupe*. 

"  General,  I  don't  think  you're  quite  well.  Don't  die 
now.  We  can't  spare  you  yet." 

"Die?  Do  I  look  like  it?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Belcher,  slap 
ping  his  broad  chest.  "  Don't  talk  to  me  about  dying.  I 
have  n't  thought  about  that  yet." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  know  I  didn't  mean  to  distress 
you." 

Then  the  conversation  dropped,  and  the  carriage  wheeled 
on.  The  roll  of  vehicles,  the  shouting  of  drivers,  the  pano 
ramic  scenes,  the  flags  swaying  in  the  morning  sky,  the  busy 
throngs  that  went  up  and  down  Broadway,  were  but  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  a  dimly  apprehended  dream.  He  was  journey 
ing  toward  guilt.  What  would  be  its  end  ?  Would  he  not 
be  detected  in  it  at  the  first  step  ?  How  could  he  sit  before 
the  hawk-eyed  man  whom  he  was  about  to  meet  without  in 
some  way  betraying  his  secret  ? 

When  the  coupe  stopped,  Talbot  roused  his  companion 
*ith  difficulty. 

14* 


322  8EVENOAKS. 

"  This  can't  be  the  place,  Toll.  We  haven't  come  half  a 
-nile." 

"  On  the  contrary,  we  have  come  three  miles." 

"  It  can't  be  possible,  Toll.  I  must  look  at  your  horse 
I'd  no  idea  you  had  such  an  animal." 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  got  out,  and  looked  the  horse  over. 
He  was  a  connoisseur,  and  he  stood  five  minutes  on  the  curb 
stone,  expatiating  upon  those  points  of  the  animal  that 
pleased  him. 

"  I  believe  you  came  to  see  Mr.  Cavendish,"  suggested 
Talbot  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  must  go  up.     I  hate  lawyers,  any  way." 

They  climbed  the  stairway.  They  knocked  at  Mr.  Caven 
dish's  door.  A  boy  opened  it,  and  took  in  their  cards.  Mr. 
Cavendish  was  busy,  but  would  see  them  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Mr.  Belcher  sat  down  in  the  ante-room,  took  a  newspaper 
from  his  pocket,  and  began  to  read.  Then  he  took  a  pen 
and  scribbled,  writing  his  own  name  with  three  other  names, 
across  which  he  nervously  drew  his  pen.  Then  he  drew  forth 
his  knife,  and  tremblingly  dressed  his  finger-nails.  Having 
completed  this  task,  he  took  out  a  large  pocket-book,  with 
drew  a  blank  check,  filted  and  signed  it,  and  put  it  back. 
Realizing,  at  last,  that  Talbot  was  waiting  to  go  in  with  him, 
he  said : 

"By  the  way,  Toll,  this  business  of  mine  is  private." 

" Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Talbot ;  "I'm  only  going  in  to 
make  sure  that  Cavendish  remembers  you." 

What  Talbot  really  wished  to  make  sure  of  was,  that 
Cavendish  should  know  that  he  had  brought  him  his  client. 

At  last  they  heard  a  little  bell  which  summoned  the  boy, 
who  soon  returned  to  say  that  Mr.  Cavendish  would  see  them. 
Mr.  Belcher  looked  around  for  a  mirror,  but  discovering 
none,  said  : 

"Toll,  look  at  me!  Am  I  all  right?  Do  you  see  any* 
thing  out  of  the  way?" 

Talbot  having  looked  him  over,  and  reported  favorably^ 


SEVEN  OAKS.  323 

they  followed  the  boy  into  the  penetralia  of  the  great  office, 
and  into  the  presence  of  the  great  man.  Mr.  Cavendish  did 
not  rise,  but  leaned  back  in  his  huge,  carved  chair,  and  rubbed 
his  hands,  pale  in  their  morning  whiteness,  and  said,  coldly : 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen;  sit  down." 

Mr.  Talbot  declined.  He  had  simply  brought  to  him  his 
friend,  General  Belcher,  who,  he  believed,  had  a  matter  of 
business  to  propose.  Then,  telling  Mr.  Belcher  that  he 
should  leave  the  coup£  at  his  service,  he  retired. 

Mr.  Belcher  felt  that  he  was  already  in  court.  Mr.  Caven 
dish  sat  behind  his  desk  in  a  judicial  attitude,  with  his  new 
client  fronting  him.  The  latter  fell,  or  tried  to  force  himself, 
into  a  jocular  mood  and  bearing,  according  to  his  custom  on 
serious  occasions. 

"  I  am  likely  to  have  a  little  scrimmage,11  said  he,  "  and  I 
shall  want  your  help,  Mr.  Cavendish." 

Saying  this,  he  drew  forth  a  check  for  a  thousand  dollars, 
which  he  had  drawn  in  the  ante-room,  and  passed  it  over  to 
the  lawyer.  Mr.  Cavendish  took  it  up  listlessly,  held  it  by 
its  two  ends,  read  its  face,  examined  its  back,  and  tossed  it 
into  a  drawer,  as  if  it  were  a  suspicious  sixpence. 

"It's  a  thousand  dollars,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  surprised  that 
the  sum  had  apparently  made  no  impression. 

"  I  see — a  retainer — thanks  !" 

All  the  time  the  hawk-eyes  were  looking  into  Mr.  Belcher. 
All  the  time  the  scalp  was  moving  backward  and  forward,  as 
if  he  had  just  procured  a  new  one,  that  might  be  filled  up 
before  night,  but  for  the  moment  was  a  trifle  large.  All  the 
time  there  was  a  subtle  scorn  upon  the  lips,  the  flavor  of 
which  the  finely  curved  nose  apprehended  with  approval. 

"What's  the  case,  General?" 

The  General  drew  from  his  pocket  his  forged  assignment, 
und  passed  it  into  the  hand  of  Mr.  Cavendish. 

*'  Is  that  a  legally  constructed  document?"  he  inquired. 

Mr.  Cavendish  read  it  carefully,  every  word.  He  looked 
it  the  signatures.  He  looked  at  the  blank  page  on  the  back 


324 

He  looked  at  the  tape  with  which  it  was  bound.  He  fingered 
the  knot  with  which  it  was  tied.  He  folded  it  carefully,  and 
handed  it  back. 

*  Yes — absolutely  perfect,"  he  said.     "  Of  course  I  know 
nothing  about  the  signatures.     Is  the  assignor  living  ?" 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Bel 
cher.  "  I  supposed  him  to  be  dead  for  years.  I  have  now 
reason  to  suspect  that  he  is  living." 

"  Have  you  been  using  these  patents  ? 

"Yes,  and  I've  made  piles  of  money  on  them." 

"Is  your  right  contested?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  it  will  be." 

"What  reason?"  inquired  Mr.  Cavendish,  sharply. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  puzzled. 

"  Well,  the  man  has  been  insane,  and  has  forgotten,  very 
likely,  what  he  did  before  his  insanity.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  such  is  the  case,  and  that  he  intends  to  contest 
my  right  to  the  inventions  which  this  paper  conveys  to  me." 

"  What  reason,  now?" 

Mr.  Belcher's  broad  expanse  of  face  crimsoned  into  a  blush, 
and  he  simply  answered : 

"I  know  the  man." 

"  Who  is  his  lawyer  ?'* 

"Balfour." 

Mr.  Cavendish  gave  a  little  start. 

"  Let  me  see  that  paper  again/'  said  he. 

After  looking  it  through  again,  he  said,  dryly  r 
^  "I  know  Balfour.  He  is  a  shrewd  man,  and  a  good  law 
yer  :  and  unless  he  has  a  case,  or  thinks  he  has  one,  he  will 
not  fight  this  document.  What  deviltry  there  is  in  it,  I  don't 
know,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me.  I  can  tell  you 
that  you  have  a  hard  man  to  fight.  Where  are  these  wit 
nesses?" 

"  Two  of  them  are  dead.  One  of  them  is  living,  and  is 
now  in  the  city." 

"  What  can  he  swear  to  ?" 


SEVENOAKS.  325 

"  He  can  swear  to  his  own  signature,  and  to  all  the  rest. 
He  can  relate  and  swear  to  all  the  circumstances  attending  the 
execution  of  the  paper." 

"And  you  know  that  these  rights  were  never  previously 
conveyed." 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  never  were." 

"Then,  mark  you,  General,  Balfour  has  no  case  at  all — 
provided  this  isn't  a  dirty  paper.  If  it  is  a  dirty  paper,  and 
you  want  me  to  serve  you,  keep  your  tongue  to  yourself. 
You've  recorded  it,  of  course." 

"Recorded  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Belcher  in  an  alarm  which 
he  did  not  attempt  to  disguise. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  paper  has  been 
in  existence  more  than  six  years,  and  has  not  been  re 
corded?" 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  necessary." 

Mr.  Cavendish  tossed  the  paper  back  to  the  owner  of  it  with 
a  sniff  of  contempt. 

"It  isn't  worth  that  !"  said  he,  snapping  his  fingers. 

Then  he  drew  out  the  check  from  his  drawer,  and  handed 
it  back  to  Mr.  Belcher. 

"  There's  no  case,  and  I  don't  want  your  money,"  said  he. 

"But  there  is  a  case  !"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  fiercely,  scared 
out  of  his  fear.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  be  cheated 
out  of  my  rights  without  a  fight?  I'm  no  chicken,  and  I'll 
spend  half  a  million  before  I'll  give  up  my  rights." 

Mr.  Cavendish  laughed. 

"  Well,  go  to  Washington,"  said  he,  "  and  if  you  don't  find 
that  Balfour  or  somebody  else  has  been  there  before  you,  I 
shall  be  mistaken.  Balfour  isn't  very  much  of  a  chicken,  and 
he  knows  enough  to  know  that  the  first  assignment  recorded 
there  holds.  Why  has  he  not  been  down  upon  you  before  this  ? 
Simply  because  he  saw  that  you  were  making  money  for  his 
client,  and  he  preferred  to  take  it  all  out  of  you  in  a  sin 
gle  slice.  I  know  Balfour,  and  he  carries  a  long  head. 
Chicken  S" 


326  SEVENOAKS. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  in  distress.  The  whole  game  was  as  obvi 
ous  and  real  to  him  as  if  he  had  assured  himself  of  its  truth. 
He  staggered  to  his  feet.  He  felt  the  hand  of  ruin  upon  him. 
He  believed  that  while  he  had  been  perfecting  his  crime  he 
had  been  quietly  overreached.  He  lost  his  self-command,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  profanity  and  bluster,  at  which  Mr.  Caven 
dish  laughed. 

"There's  no  use  in  that  sort  of  thing,  General,"  said  he. 
"  Go  to  Washington.  Ascertain  for  yourself  about  it,  and  if 
you  find  it  as  I  predict,  make  the  best  of  it.  You  can 
make  a  compromise  of  some  sort.  Do  the  best  you  can." 

There  was  one  thing  that  Mr.  Cavendish  had  noticed. 
Mr.  Belcher  had  made  no  response  to  him  when  he  told 
him  that  if  the  paper  was  a  dirty  one  he  did  not  wish  to  know 
it.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  there  was  mischief  in  it, 
somewhere.  Either  the  consideration  had  never  been  paid, 
or  the  signatures  were  fraudulent,  or  perhaps  the  paper  had 
been  executed  when  the  assignor  was  demonstrably  of  un 
sound  mind.  Somewhere,  he  was  perfectly  sure,  there  was 
fraud. 

"General,"  said  he,  "I  have  my  doubts  about  this  paper. 
I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  why.  I  understand  that  there 
is  one  witness  living  who  will  swear  to  all  these  signatures." 

"There  is." 

"Is  he  a  credible  witness?  Has  he  ever  committed  a 
crime?  Can  anything  wrong  be  proved  against  him?" 

"The  witness,"  responded  Mr.  Belcher,  "is  my  man 
Phipps  ;  and  a  more  faithful  fellow  never  lived.  I've  known 
him  for  years,  and  he  was  never  in  an  ugly  scrape  in  his  life." 

"  Well,  if  you  find  that  no  one  is  before  you  on  the  records, 
come  back ;  and  when  you  come  you  may  as  well  multiply  that 
check  by  ten.  WThen  I  undertake  a  thing  of  this  kind,  I  like 
\o  provide  myself  against  all  contingencies." 

Mr.  Belcher  groaned,  and  tore  up  the  little  check  that 
ieemed  so  large  when  he  drew  it,  and  had  shrunk  to  such  con 
temptible  dimensions  in  the  hands  of  the  lawyer. 


SEVENOAKS.  327 

"You  lawyers  put  the  lancet  in  pretty  deep." 

"Our  clients  never  do!"  said  Mr.  Cavendish  through  his 
sneering  lips. 

Then  the  boy  knocked,  and  came  in.  There  was  another 
gentleman  who  wished  to  see  the  lawyer. 

"  I  shall  go  to  Washington  to-day,  and  see  you  on  my  re 
turn,"  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

Then,  bidding  the  lawyer  a  good-morning,  he  went  out,  ran 
down  the  stairs,  jumped  into  Mr.  Talbot's  waiting  coupe,  and 
ordered  himself  driven  home.  Arriving  there,  he  hurriedly 
packed  a  satchel,  and,  announcing  to  Mrs.  Belcher  that  he 
had  been  unexpectedly  called  to  Washington,  went  out,  and 
made  the  quickest  passage  possible  to  Jersey  City.  As  he 
had  Government  contracts  on  hand,  his  wife  asked  no  ques 
tions,  and  gave  the  matter  no  thought. 

The  moment  Mr.  Belcher  found  himself  on  the  train,  and 
in  motion,  he  became  feverishly  excited.  He  cursed  himself 
that  he  had  not  attended  to  this  matter  before.  He  had  won 
dered  why  Balfour  was  so  quiet.  With  Benedict  alive  and  in 
communication,  or  with  Benedict  dead,  and  his  heir  in  charge, 
why  had  he  made  no  claim  upon  rights  which  were  the  basis 
of  his  own  fortune  ?  There  could  be  but  one  answer  to  these 
questions,  and  Cavendish  had  given  it ! 

He  talked  to  himself,  and  attracted  the  attention  of  those 
around  him.  He  walked  the  platforms  at  all  the  stations 
where  the  train  stopped.  He  asked  the  conductor  a  dozen 
times  at  what  hour  the  train  would  -arrive  in  Washington, 
apparently  forgetting  that  he  had  already  received  his  informa 
tion.  He  did  not  reach  his  destination  until  evening,  and 
then,  of  course,  all  the  public  offices  were  closed.  He  met 
men  whom  he  knew,  but  he  would  not  be  tempted  by  them 
into  a  debauch.  He  went  to  bed  early,  and,  after  a  weary 
night  of  sleeplessness,  found  himself  at  the  Patent  Office  be 
fore  a  clerk  was  in  his  place. 

When  the  offices  were  opened,  he  sought  his  man,  and  re 
vealed  his  business.  He  prepared  a  list  of  the  patents  in 


328  SEVENOAKS. 

which  he  was  interested,  and  secured  a  search  of  the  records 
of  assignment.  It  was  a  long  time  since  the  patents  had  been 
issued,  and  the  inquisition  was  a  tedious  one ;  but  it  resulted, 
to  his  unspeakable  relief,  in  the  official  statement  that  no  one 
of  them  had  ever  been  assigned.  Then  he  brought  out  his 
paper,  and,  with  a  blushing  declaration  that  he  had  not  known 
the  necessity  of  its  record  until  the  previous  day,  saw  the  as 
signment  placed  upon  the  books. 

Then  he  was  suddenly  at  ease.  Then  he  could  look  about 
him.  A  great  burden  was  rolled  from  his  shoulders,  and  he 
knew  that  he  ought  to  be  jolly ;  but  somehow  his  spirits  did 
not  rise.  As  he  emerged  from  the  Patent  Office,  there  was 
the  same  weird  light  in  the  sky  that  he  had  noticed  the  day 
before,  on  leaving  his  house  with  Talbot.  The  great  dome  of 
the  Capitol  swelled  in  the  air  like  a  bubble,  which  seemed  as 
if  it  would  burst.  The  broad,  hot  streets  glimmered  as  if  a 
volcano  were  breeding  under  them.  Everything  looked  un 
substantial.  He  found  himself  watching  for  Balfour,  and 
expecting  to  meet  him  at  every  corner.  He  was  in  a  new 
world,  and  had  not  become  wonted  to  it — the  world  of  con 
scious  crime — the  world  of  outlawry.  It  had  a  sun  of  its  own, 
fears  of  its  own,  figures  and  aspects  of  its  own.  There  was  a 
new  man  growing  up  within  him,  whom  he  wished  to  hide. 
To  this  man's  needs  his  face  had  not  yet  become  hardened, 
his  words  had  not  yet  been  trained  beyond  the  danger  of 
betrayal,  his  eyes  had  not  adjusted  their  pupils  for  vision  and 
self-suppression. 

He  took  the  night  train  home,  breakfasted  at  the  Astor,  and 
was  the  first  man  to  greet  Mr.  Cavendish  when  that  gentleman 
entered  his  chambers.  Mr.  Cavendish  sat  listlessly,  and  heard 
his  story.  The  lawyer's  hands  were  as  pale,  his  scalp  as  un 
easy,  and  his  lips  as  redolent  of  scorn  as  they  were  two  days 
before,  while  his  nose  bent  to  sniff  the  scorn  with  more  evi 
dent  approval  than  then.  He  apprehended  more  thoroughly 
the  character  of  the  man  before  him,  saw  more  clearly 
the  nature  of  his  business,  and  wondered  with  contemp- 


SEVENOAKS.  329 

tuous  incredulity  that  Balfour  had  not  been  sharper  and 
quicker. 

After  Mr.  Belcher  had  stated  the  facts  touching  the  Wash 
ington  records,  Mr.  Cavendish  said  : 

"  Well,  General,  as  far  as  appearances  go,  you  have  the 
lead.  Nothing  but  the  overthrow  of  your  assignment  can 
damage  you,  and,  as  I  told  you  the  day  before  yesterday,  if 
the  paper  is  dirty,  don't  tell  me  of  it — that  is,  if  you  want 
me  to  do  anything  for  you.  Go  about  your  business,  say 
nothing  to  anybody,  and  if  you  are  prosecuted,  come  to 
me." 

Still  Mr.  Belcher  made  no  response  to  the  lawyer's  sugges 
tion  touching  the  fraudulent  nature  of  the  paper ;  and  the  lat 
ter  was  thoroughly  confirmed  in  his  original  impression  that 
there  was  something  wrong  about  it. 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  went  out  upon  Wall  street,  among  his 
brokers,  visited  the  Exchange,  visited  the  Gold  Room,  jested 
with  his  friends,  concocted  schemes,  called  upon  Talbot, 
wrote  letters,  and  filled  up  his  day.  Going  home  to  dinner, 
he  found  a  letter  from  his  agent  at  Sevenoaks,  giving  in  detail 
his  reasons  for  supposing  not  only  that  Benedict  had  been  in 
the  village,  but  that,  from  the  time  of  his  disappearance  from 
the  Sevenoaks  poor-house,  he  had  been  living  at  Number 
Nine  with  Jim  Fenton.  Balfour  had  undoubtedly  found  him 
there,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  woods.  Mike 
Conlin  must  also  have  found  him  there,  and  worst  of  all,  Sam 
Yates  must  have  discovered  him.  The  instruments  that  he 
had  employed,  at  a  considerable  cost,  to  ascertain  whether 
Benedict  were  alive  or  dead  had  proved  false  to  him.  The 
discovery  that  Sam* Yates  was  a  traitor  made  him  tremble.  It 
was  from  him  that  he  had  procured  the  autographs  on  which 
two  of  his  forgeries  were  based.  He  sat  down  immediately, 
and  wrote  a  friendly  letter  to  Yates,  putting  some  business 
into  his  hands,  and  promising  more.  Then  he  wrote  to  his 
agent,  telling  him  of  his  interest  in  Yates,  and  of  his  faithful 
service,  and  directing  him  to  take  the  reformed  man  under 


330  SEVENOAKS. 

his  wing,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  to  attach  him  to  the  interests 
of  the  concern. 

Two  days  afterward,  he  looked  out  of  his  window  and  saw 
Mr.  Balfour  descending  the  steps  of  his  house  with  a  traveling 
satchel  in  his  hand.  Calling  Phipps,  he  directed  him  to  jump 
into  the  first  cab,  or  carriage,  pay  double  price,  and  make  his 
way  to  the  ferry  that  led  to  the  Washington  cars,  see  if  Bal 
four  crossed  at  that  point,  and  learn,  if  possible,  his  destina 
tion.  Phipps  returned  in  an  hour  and  a  half  with  the  infor 
mation  that  the  lawyer  had  bought  a  ticket  for  Washington. 

Then  Mr.  Belcher  knew  that  trouble  was  brewing,  and 
braced  himself  to  meet  it.  In  less  than  forty-eight  hours, 
Balfour  would  know,  either  that  he  had  been  deceived  by 
Benedict,  or  that  a  forgery  had  been  committed.  Balfour  was 
cautious,  and  would  take  time  to  settle  this  question  in  his 
own  mind. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

WHEREIN  THE  GENERAL  LEAPS  THE    BOUNDS    OF    LAW,  FINDS  HIM 
SELF  IN  A  NEW  WORLD,  AND  BECOMES  THE  VICTIM  OF  HIS 
FRIENDS  WITHOUT  KNOWING  IT. 

FOR  several  weeks  the  General  had  been  leading  a  huge  and 
unscrupulous  combination  for  "bearing  "  International  Mail. 
The  stock  had  ruled  high  for  a  long  time — higher  than  was 
deemed  legitimate  by  those  familiar  with  its  affairs — and  the 
combination  began  by  selling  large  blocks  of  the  stock  for 
future  delivery,  at  a  point  or  two  below  the  market.  Then 
stories  about  the  corporation  began  to  be  circulated  upon  the 
street,  of  the  most  damaging  character — stories  of  fraud, 
peculation,  and  rapidly  diminishing  business — stories  of 
maturing  combinations  against  the  company — stories  of  the 
imminent  retirement  of  men  deemed  essential  to  the  manage 
ment.  The  air  was  full  of  rumors.  One  died  only  to  make 
place  for  another,  and  men  were  forced  to  believe  that  where 
there  was  so  much  smoke  there  must  be  some  fire.  Still  the 
combination  boldly  sold.  The  stock  broke,  and  went  down, 
down,  down,  day  after  day,  and  still  there  were  strong  takers 
for  all  that  offered.  The  operation  had  worked  like  a  charm 
to  the  point  where  it  was  deemed  prudent  to  begin  to  re-pur 
chase,  when  there  occurred  one  of  those  mysterious  changes 
in  the  market  which  none  could  have  foreseen.  It  was  be 
lieved  that  the  market  had  been  oversold,  and  the  holders 
held.  The  combination  was  short,  and  up  went  the  stock  by  .. 
the  run.  The  most  frantic  efforts  were  made  to  cover,  but 
without  avail,  and  as  the  contracts  matured,  house  after  house 
Went  down  with  a  crash  that  startled  the  country.  Mr.  Bel- 

33' 


332  SEVENOAKS. 

cher,  the  heaviest  man  of  them  all,  turned  the  cold  shoulder 
to  his  confrdres  in  the  stupendous  mischief,  and  went  home  to 
his  dinner  one  day,  conscious  that  half  a  million  dollars  had 
slipped  through  his  fingers.  He  ate  but  little,  walked  his 
rooms  for  an  hour  like  a  caged  tiger,  muttered  and  swore  to 
himself,  and  finally  went  off  to  his  club.'  There  seemed  to  be 
no  way  in  which  he  could  drown  his  anger,  disappointment, 
and  sense  of  loss,  except  by  a  debauch,  and  he  was  brought 
home  by  his  faithful  Phipps  at  the  stage  of  confidential  silli 
ness. 

When  his  brokers  appeared  at  ten  the  next  morning,  he 
drove  them  from  the  house,  and  then,  with  such  wits  as  he 
could  muster,  in  a  head  still  tortured  by  his  night's  excesses, 
thought  over  his  situation.  A  heavy  slice  of  his  ready  money 
had  been  practically  swept  out  of  existence.  If  he  was  not 
crippled,  his  wings  were  clipped.  His  prestige  was  departed. 
He  knew  that  men  would  thereafter  be  wary  of  following  him, 
or  trusting  to  his  sagacity.  Beyond  the  power  of  his  money, 
and  his  power  to  make  money,  he  knew  that  he  had  no  con 
sideration  on  'Change — that  there  were  five  hundred  men  who 
would  laugh  to  see  the  General  go  down — who  had  less  feel 
ing  for  him,  personally,  than  they  entertained  toward  an  or 
dinary  dog.  He  knew  this  because  so  far,  at  least,  he  under 
stood  himself.  To  redeem  his  position  was  now  the  grand 
desideratum.  He  would  do  it  or  die  ! 

There  was  one  direction  in  which  the  General  had  permitted 
himself  to  be  shortened  in,  or,  rather,  one  in  which  he  had 
voluntarily  crippled  himself  for  a  consideration.  He  had  felt 
himself  obliged  to  hold  large  quantities  of  the  stock  of  the 
Crooked  Valley  Railroad,  in  order  to  maintain  his  seat  at  the 
head  of  its  management.  He  had  parted  with  comparatively 
little  of  it  since  his  first  huge  purchase  secured  the  place  he 
Bought,  and  though  the  price  he  gave  was  small,  the  quantity 
raised  the  aggregate  to  a  large  figure.  All  this  was  unproduc 
tive.  It  simply  secured  his  place  and  his  influence. 

No  sooner  had  he  thoroughly  realized  the  great  loss  he 


SEVENOAKS.  333 

had  met  with,  in  connection  with  his  Wall  street  conspiracy, 
than  he  began  to  revolve  in  his  mind  a  scheme  which  he  had 
held  in  reserve  from  the  first  moment  of  his  control  of  the 
Crooked  Valley  Road.  He  had  nourished  in  every  possible 
way  the  good-will  of  those  who  lived  along  the  line.  Not 
only  this,  but  he  had  endeavored  to  show  his  power  to  do 
inything  he  pleased  with  the  stock. 

The  people  believed  that  he  only  needed  to  raise  a  finger  to 
carry  up  the  price  of  the  stock  in  the  market,  and  that  the 
same  potent  finger  could  carry  it  down  at  will.  He  had 
already  wrought  wonders.  He  had  raised  a  dead  road  to  life. 
He  had  invigorated  business  In  every  town  through  which  it 
passed.  He  was  a  king,  whose  word  was  law  and  whose  will 
was  destiny.  The  rumors  of  his  reverses  in  Wall  street  did 
not  reach  them,  and  all  believed  that,  in  one  way  or  another, 
their  fortunes  were  united  with  his. 

The  scheme  to  which  he  reverted  in  the  first  bitter  moments 
of  his  loss  could  have  originated  in  no  brain  less  unscrupulous 
than  his  own.  He  would  repeat  the  game  that  had  been  so 
successful  at  Sevenoaks.  To  do  this,  he  only  needed  to  call 
into  action  his  tools  on  the  street  and  in  the  management. 

In  the  midst  of  his  schemes,  the  bell  rang  at  the  door,  and 
Talbot  was  announced.  Mr.  Belcher  was  always  glad  to  see 
him,  for  he  had  no  association  with  his  speculations.  Talbot 
had  uniformly  been  friendly  and  ready  to  serve  him.  In 
truth,  Talbot  was  almost  his  only  friend. 

"Toll,  have  you  heard  the  news?" 

"About  the  International  Mail?" 

"Yes." 

"I've  heard  something  of  it,  and  I've  come  around  this 
morning  to  get  the  facts.  I  shall  be  bored  about  them  all  day 
by  your  good  friends,  you  know." 

"Well/Toll,  I've  had  a  sweat." 

"You're  not  crippled?" 

"  No,  but  I've  lost  every  dollar  I  have  made  since  I've  been 
in  the  city.  Jones  has  gone  under ;  Pell  has  gone  under. 


334  SEVENOAKS. 

Cramp  &.  Co.  will  have  to  make  a  statement,  and  get  a  little 
time,  but  they  will  swim.  The  General  is  the  only  man  of 
the  lot  who  isn't  shaken.  But,  Toll,  it's  devilish  hard.  It 
scares  me.  A  few  more  such  slices  would  spoil  my  cheese." 

"Well,  now,  General,  why  do  you  go  into  these  things 
at  all  ?  You  are  making  money  fast  enough  in  a  regular  bu 
siness." 

"  Ah,  but  it's  tame,  tame,  tame  !  I  must  have  excitement. 
Theatres  are  played  out,  horses  are  played  out,  and  suppers 
raise  the  devil  with  me." 

"  Then  take  it  easy.  Don't  risk  so  much.  You  used  to  do 
this  sort  of  thing  well — used  to  do  it  right  every  time.  You 
got  up  a  good  deal  of  reputation  for  foresight  and  skill." 

"  I  know,  and  every  man  ruined  in  the  International  Mail 
will  curse  me.  I  led  them  into  it.  I  shall  have  a  sweet  time 
in  Wall  street  when  I  go  there  again.  But  it's  like  brandy; 
a  man  wants  a  larger  dose  every  time,  and  I  shall  clean  them 
out  yet." 

Talbot's  policy  was  to  make  the  General  last.  He  wanted 
to  advise  him  for  his  good,  because  his  principal's  permanent 
prosperity  was  the  basis  of  his  own.  He  saw  that  he  was 
getting  beyond  control,  and,  under  an  exterior  of  compliance 
and  complaisance,  he  was  genuinely  alarmed. 

"Toll,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  "you  are  a  good  fellow." 

"Thank  you,  General,"  said  the  factor,  a  smile  spreading 
around  his  shining  teeth.  "  My  wife  will  be  glad  to  know  it." 

"By  the  way — speaking  of  your  wife — have  you  seen  any- 
thing  of  Mrs.  Dillingham  lately?" 

"  Nothing.  She  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  absorbed  by 
the  General." 

"  Common  Supposition  is  a  greater  fool  than  I  wish  it 
were." 

"  That  won't  do,  General.  There  never  was  a  more  evident 
case  of  killing  at  first  sight  than  that." 

"  Well,  Toll,  I  believe  the  woman  is  fond  of  me,  but  she  has 
a  queer  way  of  showing  it.  I  think  she  has  changed.  It 


SEVENOAKS.  335 

seems  so  to  me,  but  she's  a  devilish  fine  creature.  Ah,  my 
heart!  my  heart !  Toll." 

"  You  were  complaining  of  it  the  other  day.  It  was  a 
theological  seminary  then.  Perhaps  that  is  the  name  you 
know  her  by." 

"Not  much  theological  seminary  about  her!"  with  a 
laugh. 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  that  you  can  comfort  yourself 
with,  General ;  she  sees  no  man  but  you." 

"  Is  that  so?"  inquired  Mr.  Belcher,  eagerly. 

"  That  is  what  everybody  says." 

Mr.  Belcher  rolled  this  statement  as  a  sweet  morsel  under 
his  tongue.  She  must  be  hiding  her  passion  from  him  under 
an  impression  of  its  hopelessness  !  Poor  woman  !  He  would 
see  her  at  the  first  opportunity. 

"Toll,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  after  a  moment  of  delicious  re 
flection,  "you're  a  good  fellow." 

"  I  think  I've  heard  that  remark  before." 

"  Yes,  you're  a  good  fellow,  and  I'd  like  to  do  something 
for  you." 

"  You've  done  a  great  deal  for  me  already,  General." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  going  to  do  something  more." 

"  Will  you  put  it  in  my  hand  or  my  hat?"  inquired  Tal« 
bot,  jocularly. 

"Toll,  how  much  Crooked  Valley  stock  have  you?" 

"  A  thousand  shares." 

"  What  did  you  buy  it  for?" 

"To  help  you." 

"  What  have  you  kept  it  for?" 

"  To  help  keep  the  General  at  the  head  of  the  manage 
ment." 

"Turn  about  is  fair  play,  isn't  it?" 

"  That's  the  adage,"  responded  Talbot. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  put  that  stock  up;  do  you  under 
stand?" 

"How  will  you  do  it?" 


33<>  SEVEN  OAKS. 

"By  saying  I'll  do  it.  I  want  it  whispered  along  the  line 
that  the  General  is  going  to  put  that  stock  up  within  a  week. 
They're  all  greedy.  They  are  all  just  like  the  rest  of  us. 
They  know  it  isn't  worth  a  continental  copper,  but  they  want 
a  hand  in  the  General's  speculations,  and  the  General  wants 
it  understood  that  he  would  like  to  have  them  share  in  his 
profits." 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Talbot. 

"Toll,  I've  got  another  vision.  Hold  on  now  !  I  behold 
a  man  in  the  General's  confidence — a  reliable,  business  man 
— who  whispers  to  his  friend  that  he  heard  the  General  say 
that  he  had  all  his  plans  laid  for  putting  up  the  Crooked 
Valley  stock  within  a  week.  This  friend  whispers  it  to 
another  friend.  No  names  are  mentioned.  It  goes  from 
friend  to  friend.  It  is  whispered  through  every  town  along 
the  line.  Everybody  gets  crazy  over  it,  and  everybody 
quietly  sends  in  an  order  for  stock.  In  the  meantime  the 
General  and  his  factor,  yielding  to  the  pressure-melted  before 
the  public  demand — gently  and  tenderly  unload  !  The  vision 
still  unrolls.  Months  later  I  behold  the  General  buying  back 
the  stock  at  his  own  price,  and  with  it  maintaining  his  place 
in  the  management.  Have  you  followed  me?" 

"Yes,  General,  I've  seen  it  all.  I  comprehend  it,  and  I 
shall  unload  with  all  the  gentleness  and  tenderness  possible." 

Then  the  whimsical  scoundrel  and  his  willing  lieutenant 
laughed  a  long,  heartless  laugh. 

"Toll,  I  feel  better,  and  I  believe  I'll  get  up,"  said  the 
General.  "Let  this  vision  sink  deep  into  your  soul.  Then 
give  it  wings,  and  speed  it  on  its  mission.  Remember  that 
this  is  a  vale  of  tears,  and  don't  set  your  affections  on  things 
below.  By-by!" 

Talbot  went  down  stairs,  drawing  on  his  gloves,  and  laugh 
ing.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  warm  light,  buttoned  up  his 
coat  instinctively,  as  if  to  hide  the  plot  he  carried,  jumped 
into  his  coupe",  and  went  to  his  business. 

Mr.  Belcher  dressed  himserr  with  more  than  his  usual  care, 


SEVENOAKS.  337 

went  to  Mrs.  Belcher's  room  and  inquired  about  his  children, 
then  went  to  his  library,  and  drew  forth  from  a  secret  drawei 
a  little  book.  He  looked  it  over  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
placed  it  in  his  pocket,  and  went  out.  The  allusion  that  had 
been  made  to  Mrs.  Dillingham,  and  the  assurance  that  he  was 
popularly  understood  to  be  her  lover,  and  the  only  man  who 
was  regarded  by  her  with  favor,  intoxicated  him,  and  his  old 
passion  came  back  upon  him. 

It  was  a  strange  manifestation  of  his  brutal  nature  that  at 
this  moment  of  his  trouble,  and  this  epoch  of  his  cruelty  and 
crime,  he  longed  for  the  comfort  of  a  woman's  sympathy. 
He  was  too  much  absorbed  by  his  affairs  to  be  moved  by  that 
which  was  basest  in  his  regard  for  his  beautiful  idol.  If  he 
could  feel  her  hand  upon  his  forehead;  if  she  could  tell  him 
that  she  was  sorry  for  him  ;  if  he  could  know  that  she  loved 
him ;  ay,  if  he  could  be  assured  that  this  woman,  whom  he 
had  believed  to  be  capable  of  guilt,  had  prayed  for  him,  it 
would  have  been  balm  to  his  heart.  He  was  sore  with  strug 
gle,  and  guilt,  and  defeat.  He  longed  for  love  and  tender 
ness.  As  if  he  were  a  great  bloody  dog,  just  coming  from 
the  fight  of  an  hour,  in  which  he  had  been  worsted,  and 
seeking  for  a  tender  hand  to  pat  his  head,  and  call  him  "  poor, 
good  old  fellow,"  the  General  longed  for  a  woman's  loving 
recognition.  He  was  in  his  old  mood  of  self-pity.  He 
wanted  to  be  petted,  smoothed,  commiserated,  reassured ; 
and  there  was  only  one  woman  in  all  the  world  from  whom 
such  ministry  would  be  grateful. 

He  knew  that  Mrs.  Dillingham  had  heard  of  his  loss,  for 
she  heard  of  and  read  everything.  He  wanted  her  to  know 
that  it  had  not  shaken  him.  He  would  not  for  the  world 
have  her  suppose  that  he  was  growing  poor.  Still  to  appear 
to  her  as  a  person  of  wealth  and  power ;  still  to  hold  her  con 
fidence  as  a  man  of  multiplied  resources,  was,  perhaps,  the 
deepest  ambition  that  moved  him.  He  had  found  that  he 
could  not  use  her  in  the  management  of  his  affairs.  Though 
from  the  first,  up  to  the  period  of  her  acquaintance  with 

IS 


338  SEVENOAKS. 

Harry  Benedict,  she  had  led  him  on  to  love  her  by  every 
charm  she  possessed,  and  every  art  she  knew,  she  had  always 
refused  to  be  debased  by  him  in  any  way. 

When  he  went  out  of  his  house,  at  the  close  of  his  inter 
views  with  Talbot  and  Mrs.  Belcher,  it  was  without  a  defi 
nitely  formed  purpose  to  visit  the  charming  widow.  He 
simply  knew  that  his  heart  was  hungry.  The  sun-flower  is 
gross,  but  it  knows  the  sun  as  well  as  the  morning-glory,  and 
turns  to  it  as  naturally.  It  was  with  like  unreasoning  instinct 
that  he  took  the  little  book  from  its  drawer,  put  on  his  hat, 
went  down  his  steps,  and  entered  the  street  that  led  him 
toward  Mrs.  Dillingham's  house.  He  could  not  keep  away 
from  her.  He  would  not  if  he  could,  and  so,  in  ten  minutes, 
he  was  seated  with  her,  vis  a  vis. 

"You  have  been  unfortunate,  Mr.  Belcher,"  she  said,  sym 
pathetically.  "I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  It  is  not  so  bad  as 
I  heard,  I  am  sure.  You  are  looking  very  well." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  one  of  those  things  that  may  happen  any  day, 
to  any  man,  operating  as  I  do,"  responded  Mr.  Belcher,  with 
a  careless  laugh.  "  The  General  never  gets  in  too  deep.  He 
is  just  as  rich  to-day  as  he  was  when  he  entered  the  city. ' ' 

"I'm  so  glad  to  hear  it — gladder  than  I  can  express,"  said 
Mrs.  Diilingham,  with  heartiness. 

Her  effusiveness  of  good  feeling  and  her  evident  relief  from 
anxiety,  were  honey  to  him. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  me,"  said  he,  musingly. 
" The  General  knows  what  he's  about,  every  time.  He  has 
the  advantage  of  the  rest  of  them,  in  his  regular  business." 

"I  can't  understand  how  it  is,"  responded  Mrs.  Diiling 
ham,  with  fine  perplexity.  "You  men  are  so  different 
from  us.  I  should  think  you  would  be  crazy  with  your 
losses." 

Now,  Mr.  Belcher  wished  to  impress  Mrs.  Diilingham  per 
manently  with  a  sense  of  his  wisdom,  and  to  inspire  in  her  an 
inextinguishable  faith  in  his  sagacity  and  prudence.  He 
wanted  her  to  believe  in  his  power  to  retain  all  the  wealth  he 


SEVEN  OAKS.  339 

had  won.  He  would  take  her  into  his  confidence.  He  had 
never  done  this  with  relation  to  his  business,  and  under  that 
treatment  she  had  drifted  away  from  him.  Now  that  he 
found  how  thoroughly  friendly  she  was,  he  would  try  another 
method,  and  bind  her  to  him.  The  lady  read  him  as  plainly 
as  if  he  had  been  a  book,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  General !  I  have  ascertained  something  that  may  be 
of  use  to  you.  Mr.  Benedict  is  living.  I  had  a  letter  from 
his  boy  this  morning — dear  little  fellow — and  he  tells  me 
how  well  his  father  is,  and  how  pleasant  it  is  to  be  with  him 
again." 

Mr.  Belcher  frowned. 

"  Do  you  know  I  can't  quite  stomach  your  whim — about 
that  boy  ?  What  under  heaven  do  you  care  for  him?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  touch  that  whim,  General/'  said  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  laughing.  "  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  have  a  right 
to  it.  He  amuses  me,  and  a  great  deal  more  than  that.  I 
wouldn't  tell  you  a  word  about  him,  or  what  he  writes  to  me, 
if  I  thought  it  would  do  him  any  harm.  He's  my  pet.  What 
in  the  world  have  I  to  do  but  to  pet  him  ?  How  shall  I  fill 
my  time?  I'm  tired  of  society,  and  disgusted  with  men — at 
least,  with  my  old  acquaintances — and  I'm  fond  of  children. 
They  do  me  good.  Oh,  you  mustn't  touch  my  whim  !' 

"There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes!"  Mr.  Belcher  re 
sponded,  with  a  laugh  that  had  a  spice  of  scorn  and  vexation 
in  it. 

"Now,  General,  what  do  you  care  for  that  boy?  If  you 
ire  a  friend  to  me,  you  ought  to  be  glad  that  he  interests 
me." 

"I  don't  like  the  man  who  has  him  in  charge.  I  believe 
Balfour  is  a  villain." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  lady.  <•  He  never  has 
the  courtesy  to  darken  my  door.  I  once  saw  something  of 
him.  He  is  like  all  the  rest,  I  suppose;  he  is  tired  of  me." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  had  played  her  part  perfectly,  and  the 
roan  before  her  was  a  blind  believer  in  her  loyalty  to  him. 


340  SEVENOAKS. 

"Let  the  boy  go,  and  Balfour  too,"  said  the  General. 
"They  are  not  pleasant  topics  to  me,  and  vour  whim  will 
wear  out.  When  is  the  boy  coming  back?" 

"  He  is  to  be  away  all  summer,  I  believe." 

"Good!" 

Mrs.  Dillingham  laughed. 

"  Why,  I  am  glad  of  it,  if  you  are,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Belcher  drew  a  little  book  from  his  pocket. 

"What  have  you  there?"  the  lady  inquired. 

"Women  have  great  curiosity,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  slapping 
his  knee  with  the  little  volume. 

"And  men  delight  to  excite  it,"  she  responded. 

"  The  General  is  a  business  man,  and  you  want  to  know  how 
he  does  it,"  said  he. 

"I  do,  upon  my  word,"  responded  the  lady. 

"  Very  well,  the  General  has  two  kinds  of  business,  and  he 
never  mixes  one  with  the  other." 

"I  don't  understand." 

:'  Well,  you  know  he's  a  manufacturer — got  his  start  in  that 
way.  So  he  keeps  that  business  by  itself,  and  when  he  ope 
rates  in  Wall  street,  he  operates  outside  of  it.  He  never  risks 
a  dollar  that  he  makes  in  his  regular  business  in  any  outside 
operation." 

"And  you  have  it  all  in  the  little  book?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  Very  well,  you  shall,  when  I've  told  you  all  about  it.  I 
suppose  that  it  must  have  been  ten  years  ago  that  a  man  came 
to  Sevenoaks  who  was  full  of  all  sorts  of  inventions.  I  tried 
some  of  them,  and  they  worked  well ;  so  I  went  on  furnishing 
money  to  him,  and,  at  last,  I  furnished  so  much  that  he  passed 
all  his  rights  into  my  hands — sold  everything  to  me.  He  got 
into  trouble,  and  lost  his  head — went  into  an  insane  hospital, 
where  I  supported  him  for  more  than  two  years.  Then  he 
was  sent  back  as  incurable,  and,  of  course,  had  to  go  to  the 
poor  house.  I  couldn't  support  him  always,  you  know.  I'd 


SEVENOAKS.  341 

paid  him  fairly,  run  all  the  risk,  and  felt  that  my  hands  were 
clean." 

"He  had  sold  everything  to  you,  hadn't  he?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Dillingham,  sympathetically. 

"  Certainly,  I  have  the  contract,  legally  drawn,  signed,  and 
delivered." 

"People  couldn't  blame  you,  of  course." 

"But  they  did." 

"  How  could  they,  if  you  paid  him  all  that  belonged  to 
him?" 

"  That's  Sevenoaks.  That's  the  thing  that  drove  me  away. 
Benedict  escaped,  and  they  all  supposed  he  was  dead,  and 
fancied  that  because  I  had  made  money  out  of  him,  I  was  re 
sponsible  for  him  in  some  way.  But  I  punished  them.  They'll 
remember  me." 

And  Mr.  Belcher  laughed  a  brutal  laugh  that  rasped  Mrs. 
Dillingham' s  sensibilities  almost  beyond  endurance. 

"And,  now,"  said  the  General,  resuming,  "this  man  Bal- 
four  means  to  get  these  patents  that  I've  owned  and  used  for 
from  seven  to  ten  years  out  of  me.  Perhaps  he  will  do  it, 
but  it  will  be  after  the  biggest  fight  that  New  York  ever 
saw. ' ' 

Mrs.  Dillingham  eyed  the  little  book.     She  was  very  curi 
ous  about  it.     She  was  delightfully  puzzled  to  know  how  these 
men  who  had  the  power  of  making  money  managed  thei* 
affairs.     Account-books  were  such  conundrums  to  her  ! 

She  took  a  little  hassock,  placed  it  by  Mr.  Belcher's  chair, 
and  sat  down,  leaning  by  the  weight  of  a  feather  against  him. 
It  was  the  first  approach  of  the  kind  she  had  ever  made,  and 
the  General  appreciated  it. 

"Now  you  shall  show  me  all  about  it,"  she  said. 

The  General  opened  the  book.  It  contained  the  results, 
in  the  briefest  space,  of  his  profits  from  the  Benedict  inven 
tions.  It  showed  just  how  and  where  all  those  profits  had 
been  invested  and  re-invested.  Her  admiration  of  the  Gen 
eral's  business  habits  and  methods  was  unbounded.  Shf 


34*  SEVENOAKS. 

asked  a  thousand  silly  questions,  with  one,  occasionally, 
whi;;h  touched  an  important  point.  She  thanked  him  for  the 
confidence  he  reposed  in  her.  She  was  delighted  to  know 
his  system,  which  seemed  to  her  to  guard  him  from  the  ac 
cidents  so  common  to  those  engaged  in  great  enterprises ;  and 
Mr.  Belcher  drank  in  her  flatteries  with  supreme  satisfaction. 
They  comforted  him.  They  were  balm  to  his  disappoint 
ments.  They  soothed  his  wounded  vanity.  They  assured 
him  of  perfect  trust  where  he  most  tenderly  wanted  it. 

In  the  midst  of  these  delightful  confidences,  they  were  in 
terrupted.  A  servant  appeared  who  told  Mr.  Belcher  that 
there  was  a  messenger  at  the  door  who  wished  to  see  him  on 
urgent  business.  Mrs.  Dillingham  took  the  little  book  to 
hold  while  he  went  to  the  door.  After  a  few  minutes,  he 
returned.  It  seemed  that  Phipps,  who  knew  his  master's 
habits,  had  directed  the  messenger  to  inquire  for  him  at  Mrs. 
Dillingham' s  house,  and  that  his  brokers  were  in  trouble  and 
desired  his  immediate  presence  in  Wall  street.  The  General 
was  very  much  vexed  with  the  interruption,  but  declared  that 
he  should  be  obliged  to  follow  the  messenger. 

"Leave  the  little  book  until  you  comeback/'  insisted  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  sweetly.  "  It  will  amuse  me  all  day." 

She  held  it  to  her  breast  with  both  hands,  as  if  it  were  the 
sweetest  treasure  that  had  ever  rested  there. 

"Will  you  take  care  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

He  seized  her  unresisting  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Between  this  time  and  dinner  I  shall  be  back.  Then  I 
must  have  it  again,"  he  said. 

"Certainly." 

Then  the  General  retired,  went  to  his  house  and  found  his 
carriage  waiting,  and,  in  less  than  an  hour,  was  absorbed  in 
raveling  the  snarled  affairs  connected  with  his  recent  disas 
trous  speculation.  The  good  nature  engendered  by  his  de 
lightful  interview  with  Mrs.  Dillingham  lasted  al1  day,  and 
helped  him  like  a  cordial. 


SEVENOAKS.  343 

The  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house,  and  had  placed  him 
self  beyond  the  possibility  of  immediate  return,  the  lady 
called  her  servant,  and  told  him  that  she  should  be  at  home 
to  nobody  during  the  day.  No  one  was  to  be  admitted  but 
Mr.  Belcher,  on  any  errand  whatsoever. 

Then  she  went  to  her  room,  and  looked  the  little  book  over 
at  her  leisure.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the  business  skill 
and  method  of  the  man  who  had  made  every  entry.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  her  own  mind  that  it  was  a  private  book, 
whirh  no  eye  but  that  of  its  owner  had  ever  seen,  before  it 
had  been  opened  to  her. 

She  hesitated  upon  the  point  of  honor  as  to  what  she  would 
do  with  it.  It  would  be  treachery  to  copy  it,  but  it  would 
be  treachery  simply  against  a  traitor.  She  did  not  under 
stand  its  legal  importance,  yet  she  knew  it  contained 
the  most  valuable  information.  It  showed,  in  unmistakable 
figures,  the  extent  to  which  Benedict  had  been  wronged. 
Perfectly  sure  that  it  was  a  record  of  the  results  of  fraud 
against  a  helpless  man  and  a  boy  in  whom  her  heart  was  pro 
foundly  interested,  her  hesitation  was  brief.  She  locked  her 
door,  gathered  her  writing  materials,  and,  by  an  hour's  care 
ful  and  rapid  work,  copied  every  word  of  it. 

After  completing  the  copy,  she  went  over  it  again  and 
again,  verifying  every  word  and  figure.  When  she  had  re 
peated  the  process  to  her  entire  satisfaction,  and  even  to 
weariness,  she  took  her  pen,  and  after  writing:  "  This  is  a 
true  copy  of  the  records  of  a  book  this  day  lent  to  me  by 
Robert  Belcher,"  she  affixed  the  date  and  signed  her  name. 

Then  she  carefully  wrapped  Mr.  Belcher's  book  in  a  sheet 
of  scented  paper,  wrote  his  name  and  the  number  and  street 
of  his  residence  upon  it,  and  placed  it  in  her  pocket.  The 
copy  was  consigned  to  a  drawer  and  locked  in,  to  be  recalled 
and  re-perused  at  pleasure. 

She  understood  the  General's  motives  in  placing  these 
records  and  figures  in  her  hands.  The  leading  one,  of  course, 
related  to  his  standing  with  her.  He  wanted  her  to  know 


344  SEVEN  OAKS. 

how  rich  he  was,  how  prudent  he  was,  how  invincible  he  was. 
He  wanted  her  to  stand  firm  in  her  belief  in  him,  whatever 
rumors  might  be  afloat  upon  the  street.  Beyond  this,  though 
he  had  made  no  allusion  to  it,  she  knew  that  he  wanted  the 
use  of  her  tongue  among  his  friends  and  enemies  alike.  She 
was  a  talking  woman,  and  it  was  easy  for  her,  who  had  been 
so  much  at  home  in  the  General's  family,  to  strengthen  his 
reputation  wherever  she  might  touch  the  public.  He  wanted 
somebody  to  know  what  his  real  resources  were — somebody 
who  could,  from  personal  knowledge  of  his  affairs,  assert 
their  soundness  without  revealing  their  details.  He  believed 
that  Mrs.  Dillingham  would  be  so  proud  of  the  possession  of 
his  confidence,  and  so  prudent  in  showing  it,  that  his  general 
business  reputation,  and  his  reputation  for  great  wealth,  would 
be  materially  strengthened  by  her.  All  this  she  understood, 
because  she  knew  the  nature  of  the  man,  and  appreciated  the 
estimate  which  he  placed  upon  her. 

Nothing  remained  for  her  that  day  but  the  dreaded  return 
of  Mr.  Belcher.  She  was  now  more  than  ever  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  she  should  manage  him.  She  had  resumed,  during 
her  interview  with  him,  her  old  arts  of  fascination,  and  seen 
how  easily  she  could  make  him  the  most  troublesome  of 
slaves.  She  had  again  permitted  him  to  kiss  her  hand.  She 
had  asked  a  favor  of  him  and  he  had  granted  it.  She  had 
committed  a  breach  of  trust ;  and  though  she  justified  herself 
in  it,  she  felt  afraid  and  half  ashamed  to  meet  the  man  whom 
she  had  so  thoroughly  befooled.  She  was  disgusted  with  the 
new  intimacy  with  him  which  her  own  hand  had  invited,  and 
heartily  wished  that  the  long  game  of  duplicity  were  con 
cluded. 

The  General  found  more  to  engage  his  attention  than  he 
had  anticipated,  and  after  a  few  hours'  absence  from  the  fas 
cinations  of  his  idol,  he  began  to  feel  uneasy  about  his  book. 
It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  left  his  hands.  He  grew 
nervous  about  it  at  last,  and  was  haunted  by  a  vague  sense  of 
danger.  As  soon,  therefore,  as  it  became  apparent  to  him 


SEVENOAKS.  345 

that  a  second  call  upon  Mrs.  Dillingham  that  day  would  be 
impracticable,  he  sent  Phipps  to  her  with  a  note  apprising 
her  of  the  fact,  and  asking  her  to  deliver  K>  him  the  little 
account-book  he  had  left  with  her. 

It  was  with  a  profound  sense  of  relief  that  she  handed  it  to 
the  messenger,  and  realized  that,  during  that  day  and  evening 
at  least,  she  should  be  free,  and  so  able  to  gather  back  her 
old  composure  and  self-assurance.  Mr.  Belcher's  note  she 
placed  with  her  copy  of  the  book,  as  her  authority  for  passing 
it  into  other  hands  than  those  of  its  owner. 

While  these  little  things,  which  were  destined  to  have  large 
consequences,  were  in  progress  in  the  city,  an  incident  oc 
curred  in  the  country,  of  no  less  importance  in  the  grand  out 
come  of  events  relating  to  Mr.  Belcher  and  his  victim. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  after  Mr.  Belcher  had  been  a\ 
prised  by  his  agent  at  Sevenoaks  that  Mr.   Benedict  was  ui, 
doubtedly  alive,  and  that  he  had  lived,  ever  since  his  disap 
pearance,  at  Number  Nine,  he  wrote  to  Sam  Yates,  putting 
profitable  business  into  his  hands,  and  that  he  also  directed 
his  agent  to  attach  him,  by  all  possible  means,  to  the  proprit 
tor's  interests.     His  motive,  of  course,  was  to  shut  the  lawyer' & 
mouth  concerning  the  autograph  letters  he  had   furnished 
He  knew  that  Yates  would  remember  the  hints  of  forgery 
which  he  had  breathed  into  his  ear  during  their  first  interview* 
in  the  city,  and  would  not  be  slow  to  conclude  that  those  au 
tographs  were  procured  for  some  foul  purpose.     He  had  been 
careful,  from  the  first,  not  to  break  up  the  friendly  relations 
that  existed  between  them,  and  now  that  he  saw  that  the  law 
yer  had  played  him  false,  he  was  more  anxious  than  ever  to 
conciliate  him. 

Yates  attended  faithfully  to  the  business  intrusted  to  him, 
and,  on  reporting  results  to  Mr.  Belcher's  agent,  according 
to  his  client's  directions,  was  surprised  to  find  him  in  a  very 
friendly  and  confidential  mood,  and  ready  with  a  proposition 
for  further  service.  There  were  tangled  affairs  in  which  he 
needed  the  lawyer's  assistance,  and,  as  he  did  not  wish  to  have 

IS* 


54*  SEVEN  OAKS. 

the  papers  pertaining  to  them  leave  his  possession,  he  invited 
Yates  to  his  house,  where  they  could  work  together  during  the 
brief  evenings,  when  he  would  be  free  from  the  cares  of 
the  mill. 

So,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  Sam  Yates  occupied  Mr.  Belch 
er's  library — the  very  room  in  which  that  person  was  first  in 
troduced  to  the  reader.  There,  under  the  shade  of  the  old 
Seven  Oaks,  he  worked  during  the  day,  and  there,  in  the  eve 
ning,  he  held  his  consultations  with  the  agent. 

One  day,  during  his  work,  he  mislaid  a  paper,  and  in  his 
search  for  it,  had  occasion  to  examine  the  structure  of  the 
grand  library  table  at  which  he  wrote.  The  table  had  two 
sides,  finished  and  furnished  exactly  alike,  with  duplicate  sets 
of  drawers  opposite  to  each  other.  He  pulled  out  one  of 
these  drawers  completelv,  to  ascertain  whether  his  lost  paper 
had  not  slipped  through  a  crack  and  lodged  beyond  it.  In 
reaching  in,  he  moved,  or  thought  he  moved,  the  drawer  that 
met  him  from  the  opposite  side.  On  going  to  the  opposite 
side,  however,  he  found  that  he  had  not  moved  the  drawer  at 
all.  He  then  pulled  that  out,  and,  endeavoring  to  look  through 
the  space  thus  vacated  by  both  drawers,  found  that  it  was 
blocked  by  some  obstacle  that  had  been  placed  between  them. 
Finding  a  cane  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  he  thrust  it  in,  and 
pushed  through  to  the  opposite  side  a  little  secret  drawer,  un 
furnished  with  a  knob,  but  covered  with  a  lid. 

He  resumed  his  seat,  and  held  the  little  box  in  his  hand. 
Before  he  had  time  to  think  of  what  he  was  doing,  or  to  ap 
preciate  the  fact  that  he  had  no  right  to  open  a  secret  drawer, 
he  had  opened  it.  It  contained  but  one  article,  and  that  was 
a  letter  directed  to  Paul  Benedict.  The  letter  was  sealed,  so 
that  he  was  measurably  relieved  from  the  temptation  to  exam 
ine  its  contents.  Of  one  thing  he  felt  sure :  that  if  it  con 
tained  anything  prejudicial  to  the  writer's  interests — and  it  was 
addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  Robert  Belcher — it  had  been 
forgotten.  It  might  be  of  great  importance  to  the  inventor. 
The  probabilities  were,  that  a  letter  which  was  deemed  of  su£ 


SEVENOAKz.  347 

Gcient  importance  to  secrete  in  so  remarkable  a  manner  was 
an  important  one. 

To  Sam  Yates,  as  to  Mrs.  Dillingham,  with  the  little  book 
in  her  hand,  arose  the  question  of  honor  at  once.  His  heart 
was  with  Benedict.  He  was  sure  that  Belcher  had  some  foul 
purpose  in  patronizing  himself,  yet  he  went  through  a  hard 
struggle  before  he  could  bring  himself  to  the  determination 
that  Benedict  and  not  Belcher  should  have  the  first  handling 
of  the  letter.  Although  the  latter  had  tried  to  degrade  him, 
and  was  incapable  of  any  good  motive  in  extending  patronage 
to  him,  he  felt  that  he  had  unintentionally  surrounded  him 
with  influences  which  had  saved  him  from  the  most  disgrace 
ful  ruin.  He  was  at  that  very  moment  in  his  employ.  He 
was  eating  every  day  the  bread  which  his  patronage  provided. 

After  all,  was  he  not  earning  his  bread?  Was  he  under  any 
obligation  to  Mr.  Belcher  which  his  honest  and  faithful  labor 
did  not  discharge  ?  Mr.  Belcher  had  written  and  addressed 
the  letter.  He  would  deliver  it,  and  Mr.  Benedict  should  de 
cide  whether,  under  all  the  circumstances,  the  letter  was 
rightfully  his.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket,  placed  the  little  box 
back  in  its  home,  replaced  the  drawers  which  hid  it,  and  went 
on  with  his  work. 

Yates  carried  the  letter  around  in  his  pocket  for  several 
days.  He  did  not  believe  the  agent  knew  either  of  the  exist 
ence  of  the  letter  or  the  drawer  in  which  it  was  hidden.  There 
was,  in  all  probability,  no  man  but  himself  in  the  world  whc 
knew  anything  of  the  letter.  If  it  was  a  paper  of  no  import 
ance  to  anybody,  of  course  Mr.  Belcher  had  forgotten  it.  If 
it  was  of  great  importance  to  Mr.  Benedict,  Mr.  Belcher  be 
lieved  that  it  had  been  destroyed. 

He  had  great  curiosity  concerning  its  contents,  and  deter- 
mined  to  deliver  it  into  Mr.  Benedict's  hand ;  so,  at  the  con 
clusion  of  his  engagement  with  Mr.  Belcher's  agent,  he  an 
nounced  to  his  friends  that  he  had  accepted  Jim  Penton's  in 
vitation  to  visit  the  new  hotel  at  Number  Nine,  and  enjoy  a 
*eek  of  sport  in  the  woods. 


348  SEVENOAKS. 

Before  he  returned,  he  became  entirely  familiar  with  the 
contents  of  the  letter,  and,  if  he  brought  it  back  with  him  on 
his  return  to  Sevenoaks,  it  was  for  deposit  in  the  post-office, 
directed  to  James  Balfour  in  the  handwriting  of  Paul  Benedict. 

The  contents  of  this  note  were  of  such  importance  in  the 
establishment  of  justice  that  Yates,  still  doubtful  of  the  propri 
ety  of  his  act,  was  able  to  justify  it  to  his  conscience.  Under 
the  circumstances,  it  belonged  to  the  man  to  whom  it  was  ad 
dressed,  and  not  to  Mr.  Belcher  at  all.  His  own  act  might 
«e  doubtful,  but  it  was  in  the  interest  of  fair  dealing,  and  in 
opposition  to  the  schemes  of  a  consummate  rascal,  to  whom  he 
owed  neither  respect  nor  good-will.  He  would  stand  by  it, 
and  take  the  consequences  of  it. 

Were  Mrs.  Dillingham  and  Sam  Yates  justifiable  in  their 
treachery  to  Mr.  Belcher  ?  A  nice  question  this,  in  casuistry  1 
Certainly  they  had  done  as  they  would  have  been  done  by, 
had  he  been  in  their  circumstances  and  they  in  his.  He,  at 
least,  who  had  tried  to  debauch  both  of  them,  could  reasona 
bly  find  no  fault  with  them.  Their  act  was  the  natural  result 
of  his  own  influence.  It  was  fruit  from  seeds  of  his  own  sow~ 
ing.  Had  he  ever  approached  them  with  a  single  noble  and 
unselfish  motive,  neither  of  them  could  have  betrayed  him. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

IK  WHICH  THE  GENERAL   GOES  THROUGH  A  GREAT  MANY  TRIALS^ 
AND  MEETS  AT  LAST  THE  ONE  HE  HAS  SO  LONG  ANTICIPATED. 

THE  fact  that  the  General  had  deposited  the  proceeds  of  his 
foreign  sales  of  arms  with  a  European  banking  house,  osten 
sibly  subject  to  draft  for  the  materials  of  his  manufactures,  has 
already  been  alluded  to.  This  deposit  had  been  augmented 
by  subsequent  sales,  until  it  amounted  to  an  imposing  sum, 
which  Mrs.  Dillingham  ascertained,  from  the  little  account- 
book,  to  be  drawing  a  low  rate  of  interest.  With  the  pro 
prietor,  this  heavy  foreign  deposit  was  partly  a  measure 
of  personal  safety,  and  partly  a  measure  of  projected  iniquity. 
He  had  the  instinct  to  provide  against  any  possible  contin 
gencies  of  fortune  or  crime. 

Two  or  three  days  after  his  very  agreeable  call  upon  Mrs. 
Dillingham,  he  had  so  far  mastered  his  difficulties  connected 
with  the  International  Mail  that  he  could  find  time  for 
another  visit,  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  with  eager  an 
ticipation. 

"I  was  very  much  interested  in  your  little  book,  Mr. 
Belcher,"  said  the  lady,  boldly. 

"  The  General  is  one  of  the  ablest  of  our  native  authors, 
eh?"  responded  that  facetious  person,  with  a  jolly  laugh. 

"Decidedly,"  said  Mrs.  Dillingham,  "and  so  very  terse 
and  statistical." 

"  Interesting  book,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Very !  And  it  was  so  kind  of  you,  General,  to  let  me  see 
how  you  men  manage  such  things  !" 

"We  men  1"  and  the  General  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

349 


350  &EVENOAKS* 

"  One  man,  then,"  said  the  lady,  on  seeing  that  he  was 
disposed  to  claim  a  monopoly  in  the  wisdom  of  business. 

"  Do  you  remember  one  little  item — a  modest  little  item- 
concerning  my  foreign  deposits?  Eh?" 

"Little  item,  General !  What  are  you  doing  with  so  much 
money  over  there?" 

"  Nothing,  or  next  to  nothing.  That's  my  anchor  to  wind- 
ward." 

"It  will  hold,"  responded  the  lady,  "if  weight  is  all  that's 
needed." 

"  I  intend  that  it  shall  hold,  and  that  it  shall  be  larger  be 
fore  it  is  smaller." 

"I  don't  understand  it;"  and  Mrs.  Dillingham  shook  her 
pretty  head. 

Mr.  Belcher  sat  and  tnought.  There  was  a  curious  flush 
upon  his  face,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  looked  in 
tensely  into  them,  in  the  endeavor  to  read  the  love  that  hid 
behind  them.  He  was  desperately  in  love  with  her.  The 
passion,  a  thousand  times  repelled  by  her,  and  a  thousand 
times  diverted  by  the  distractions  of  his  large  affairs,  had 
been  raised  to  new  life  by  his  last  meeting  with  her ;  and  the 
determinations  of  his  will  grew  strong,  almost  to  fierceness. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  or  how  to  approach  the  subject 
nearest  to  his  heart.  He  had  always  frightened  her  so  easily ; 
she  had  been  so  quick  to  resent  any  approach  to  undue  famili 
arity  ;  she  had  so  steadily  ignored  his  insinuations,  that  he 
was  disarmed. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  General?" 

"  You've  never  seen  me  in  one  of  my  trances,  have  you?" 
inquired  Mr.  Belcher,  with  trembling  lips  and  a  forced  laugh. 

"  No  !     Do  you  have  trances?" 

"Trances?  Yes;  and  visions  of  the  most  stunning  cha 
racter.  Talbot  has  seen  me  in  two  or  three  of  them." 

"  Are  they  dangerous?" 

"  Not  at  all.  The  General's  visions  are  always  of  a  celestial 
character, — warranted  not  to  injure  the  most  delicate  consti' 


SEVENOAKS.  351 

tution  !     I  feel  one  of  them  coming  on  now.     Don't  disturb 
me." 

" Shall  I  fan  you?" 

"Do,  please!" 

The  General  closed  his  eyes.  He  had  never  before  betrayed 
such  excitement  in  her  presence,  and  had  never  before  ap 
peared  so  dangerous.  While  she  determined  that  this  should 
be  her  last  exposure  to  his  approaches,  she  maintained  her 
brave  and  unsuspecting  demeanor,  and  playfully  waved  her 
fan  toward  him. 

"I  behold,"  said  the  General,  "a  business  man  of  great 
ability  and  great  wealth,  who  discovers  too  late  that  his  wife 
is  unequally  yoked  with  an  unbeliever.  Love  aoides  not  in 
his  home,  and  his  heart  is  afloat  on  the  fierce,  rolling  sea.  He 
leaves  his  abode  in  the  country,  and  seeks  in  the  tumultuous 
life  of  the  metropolis  to  drown  his  disappointments.  He  there 
discovers  a  beautiful  woman,  cast  in  Nature's  finest  mould, 
ind  finds  himself,  for  the  first  time,  matched.  Gently  this 
heavenly  creature  repels  him,  though  her  heart  yearns  toward 
him  with  unmistakable  tenderness.  She  is  a  prudent  woman. 
She  has  a  position  to  maintain.  She  is  alone.  She  is  a  friend 
to  the  wife  of  this  unfortunate  gentleman.  She  is  hindered  in 
many  ways  from  giving  rein  to  the  impulses  of  her  heart. 
This  man  of  wealth  deposits  a  magnificent  sum  in  Europe. 
This  lady  goes  thither  for  health  and  amusement,  and  draws 
upon  this  sum  at  will.  She  travels  from  capital  to  capital,  or 
hides  herself  in  Alpine  villages,  but  is  found  at  last  by  him 
who  has  laid  his  wealth  at  her  feet." 

The  General  revealed  his  vision  with  occasional  glances 
through  half-closed  eyes  at  the  face  that  hung  bowed  before 
him.  It  was  a  desperate  step,  but  he  had  determined  to  take 
it  when  he  entered  the  house.  Humiliated,  tormented,  angry, 
Mrs.  Dillingham  sat  before  him,  covering  from  his  sight  as 
well  as  she  could  the  passion  that  raged  within  her.  She 
knew  that  she  had  invited  the  insult.  She  was  conscious  that 
her  treatment  of  him,  from  the  first,  though  she  had  endea« 


352  SEVENOAKS. 

vored  to  change  her  relations  with  him  without  breaking  his 
friendship,  had  nursed  his  base  passion  and  his  guilty  purpose. 
She  was  undergoing  a  just  punishment,  and  acknowledged  to 
herself  the  fact.  Once  she  would  have  delighted  in  torment 
ing  him.  Once  she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  drive  hin> 
from  her  door.  Once — but  she  was  changed.  A  little  boy 
who  had  learned  to  regard  her  as  a  mother,  was  thinking  of 
her  in  the  distant  woods.  She  had  fastened  to  that  childish 
life  the  hungry  instincts  of  her  motherly  nature.  She  had 
turned  away  forever  from  all  that  could  dishonor  the  lad,  or 
hinder  her  from  receiving  his  affection  without  an  upbraiding 
conscience. 

Mr.  Belcher's  instincts  were  quick  enough  to  see  that  his 
vision  had  not  prospered  in  the  mind  to  which  he  had  revealed 
it ;  and  yet,  there  was  a  hesitation  in  the  manner  of  the 
woman  before  him  which  he  could  not  explain  to  himself,  if 
he  admitted  that  his  proposition  had  been  wholly  offensive. 
Mrs.  Dillingham's  only  wish  was  to  get  him  out  of  the  house. 
If  she  could  accomplish  this  without  further  humiliation,  it 
was  all  she  desired. 

"  General,"  she  said,  at  last,  "You  must  have  been  drink 
ing.  I  do  not  think  you  know  what  you  have  said  to  me," 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  perfectly  sober,"  said  he,  rising 
and  approaching  her. 

"You  must  not  come  near  me.  Give  me  time!  give  me 
time  !"  she  exclaimed,  rising  and  retreating. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  startled  by  the  alarmed  and  angry  look 
in  her  eyes.  "Time!"  he  said,  fiercely;  "Eternity,  you 
mean." 

"  You  pretend  to  care  for  me,  and  yet  you  disobey  what 
you  know  to  be  my  wish.  Prove  your  friendship  by  leaving 
me.  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"  Leave  you,  with  not  so  much  as  the  touch  of  your  hand  ?" 
he  said. 

"Yes." 

The  General  turned  on  his  heel,  took  up  his  hat,  paused  at 


SEVENOAKSs  353 

the  door  as  if  hesitating  what  to  do  \  then,  without  a  word, 
he  went  down  stairs  and  into  the  street,  overwhelmed  with 
self-pity.  He  had  done  so  much,  risked  so  much,  and  accom 
plished  so  little  !  That  she  was  fond  of  him  there  was  no 
question  in  his  own  mind  ;  but  women  were  so  different  from 
men  !  Yet  the  villain  knew  that  if  she  had  been  easily  won 
his  heart  would  have  turned  against  her.  The  prize  grew 
more  precious,  through  the  obstacles  that  came  between  him 
and  its  winning.  The  worst  was  over,  at  least ;  she  knew  his 
project ;  and  it  would  all  come  right  in  time  1 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  house,  Mrs.  Dillingham  burst 
into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  weeping.  She  had  passed  through 
the  great  humiliation  of  her  life.  The  tree  which  she  had 
planted  and  nursed  through  many  years  of  unworthy  aims  had 
borne  its  natural  fruit.  She  groaned  under  the  crushing  pun 
ishment.  She  almost  cursed  herself.  Her  womanly  instincts 
were  quick  to  apprehend  the  fact  that  only  by  her  own  con 
sent  or  invitation,  could  any  man  reach  a  point  so  near  to 
any  woman  that  he  could  coolly  breathe  in  her  ear  a  base  pro 
position.  Yet,  with  all  her  self-loathing  and  self-condemna 
tion,  was  mingled  a  hatred  of  the  vile  man  who  had  insulted 
her,  which  would  have  half  killed  him  had  it  been  possible  for 
him  to  know  and  realize  it. 

After  her  first  passion  had  passed  away,  the  question  con 
cerning  her  future  came  up  for  settlement.  She  could  not 
possibly  remain  near  Mr.  Belcher.  She  must  not  be  exposed 
to  further  visits  from  him.  The  thought  that  in  the  little 
account-book  which  she  had  copied  there  was  a  record  that 
covered  a  design  for  her  own  destruction,  stung  her  to  the 
quick.  What  should  she  do  ?  She  would  consult  Mr.  Bal- 
four. 

She  knew  that  on  that  evening  Mr.  Belcher  would  not  be  at 
home,  that  after  the  excitements  and  disappointments  of  that 
day  he  would  seek  for  solace  in  any  place  but  that  which  held 
his  wife  and  children.  So,  muffled  in  a  slight  disguise,  and 
followed  by  her  servant,  she  stole  out  of  her  house  during  the 


354 

evening,  and  sought  the  house  of  the  lawyer.  To  him  she 
poured  out  her  heart.  To  him  she  revealed  all  that  had 
passed  between  her  and  the  proprietor,  and  to  him  she  com 
mitted  the  care  of  the  precious  document  of  which  she  had 
possessed  herself,  and  the  little  note  that  accompanied  it. 

Mr.  Balfour  advised  her  to  leave  the  city  at  once,  and  to  go 
to  some  place  where  Mr.  Belcher  would  not  be  able  to  find 
her.  He  knew  of  no  place  so  fit  for  her  in  every  respect  as 
Number  Nine,  with  his  own  family  and  those  most  dear  to 
her.  Her  boy  and  his  father  were  there;  it  was  health's  own 
home ;  and  she  could  remain  away  as  long  as  it  might  be 
necessary.  She  would  be  wanted  as  a  witness  in  a  few 
months,  at  furthest,  in  a  suit  which  he  believed  would  leave 
her  persecutor  in  a  position  where,  forgetting  others,  he 
would  be  absorbed  in  the  effort  to  take  care  of  himself. 

Her  determination  was  taken  at  once.  Mr.  Balfour  ac 
companied  her  home,  and  gave  her  all  the  necessary  direc 
tions  for  her  journey;  and  that  night  she  packed  a  single 
trunk  in  readiness  for  it.  In  the  morning,  leaving  her  house 
to  the  care  of  trusty  servants,  she  rode  to  the  station,  while 
Mr.  Belcher  was  lolling  feverishly  in  his  bed,  and  in  an  hour 
was  flying  northward  toward  the  place  that  was  to  be  her  sum 
mer  home,  and  into  a  region  that  was  destined  to  be  associ 
ated  with  her  future  life,  through  changes  and  revolutions  of 
which  she  did  not  dream. 

After  her  thirty-six  hours  of  patient  and  fatiguing  travel, 
the  company  at  Jim  Fenton's  hotel,  eager  for  letters  from  the 
city,  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  waiting  the  arrival  of 
the  guide  who  had  gone  down  for  the  mail,  and  such  passengers 
as  he  might  find  in  waiting.  They  saw,  as  he  came  in  sight, 
a  single  lady  in  the  stern  of  the  little  boat,  deeply  veiled, 
whose  name  they  could  not  guess.  When  she  debarked  among 
them,  and  looked  around  upon  the  waiting  and  cuiious 
group,  Harry  was  the  first  to  detect  her,  and  she  smothered 
him  with  kisses.  Mr.  Benedict  stood  pale  and  trembling. 
Harry  impulsively  led  her  toward  him,  and  in  a  moment  they 


SEVENOAKS.  355 

were  wrapped  in  a  tender  embrace.  None  but  Mrs.  Balfour, 
of  all  who  were  present,  understood  the  relation  that  existed 
between  the  two,  thus  strangely  reunited ;  but  it  soon  became 
known,  and  the  little  romance  added  a  new  charm  to  the  life 
in  the  woods. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  dwell  upon  the  happy  days  and  the 
pleasant  doings  of  the  summer  that  followed — the  long  twilights 
that  Mr.  Benedict  and  Mrs.  Dillingham  spent  upon  the  water, 
their  review  of  the  events  of  the  past,  the  humble  confessions 
of  the  proud  lady,  the  sports  and  diversions  of  the  wilder 
ness,  and  the  delights  of  society  brought  by  circumstances 
into  the  closest  sympathy.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  remain 
with  Jim  and  "  the  little  woman,"  in  their  new  enterprise  and 
their  new  house-keeping ;  but  we  must  return  to  the  city,  to 
follow  the  fortunes  of  one  who,  if  less  interesting  than  those 
we  leave  behind,  is  more  important  in  the  present  stage  and 
ultimate  resolution  of  our  little  drama. 

Soon  after  Mrs.  Dillingham' s  departure  from  the  city,  Mr. 
Belcher  missed  her.  Not  content  with  the  position  in  which 
he  had  left  his  affairs  with  her,  he  called  at  her  house  three 
days  after  her  disappearance,  and  learned  that  the  servants 
either  did  not  know  or  would  not  tell  whither  she  had  gone. 
In  his  blind  self-conceit,  he  could  not  suppose  that  she  had 
run  away  from  him.  He  could  not  conclude  that  she  had 
gone  to  Europe,  without  a  word  of  her  purpose  breathed  to 
him.  Still,  even  that  was  possible.  She  had  hidden  some 
where,  and  he  should  hear  from  her.  Had  he  frightened  her  ? 
Had  he  been  too  precipitate  ?  Much  as  he  endeavored  to 
explain  her  sudden  disappearance  to  his  own  advantage,  he 
was  left  unsatisfied  and  uneasy. 

A  few  days  passed  away,  and  then  he  began  to  doubt. 
Thrown  back  upon  himself,  deprived  of  the  solace  of  her 
society,  and  released  from  a  certain  degree  of  restraint  that 
she  had  always  exercised  upon  him,  he  indulged  more  freely 
in  drink,  and  entered  with  more  recklessness  upon  the  excite 
ments  of  speculation. 


35<5  SEVENOAKS. 

The  General  had  become  conscious  that  he  was  not  quite  the 
man  that  he  had  been.  His  mind  was  darkened  and  dulled 
by  crime.  He  was  haunted  by  vague  fears  and  apprehensions. 
With  his  frequent  and  appalling  losses  of  money,  he  had  lost 
a  measure  of  his  faith  in  himself.  His  coolness  of  calculation 
had  been  diminished ;  he  listened  with  readier  credulity  to 
rumors,  and  yielded  more  easily  to  the  personal  influences 
around  him.  Even  the  steady  prosperity  which  attended  his 
regular  business  became  a  factor  in  his  growing  incapacity  for 
the  affairs  of  the  street.  His  reliance  on  his  permanent 
sources  of  income  made  him  more  reckless  in  his  specula 
tions. 

His  grand  scheme  for  "gently"  and  "tenderly"  unload 
ing  his  Crooked  Valley  stock  upon  the  hands  of  his  trusting 
dupes  along  the  line,  worked,  however,  to  perfection.  It 
only  required  rascality,  pure  and  simple,  under  the  existing 
conditions,  to  accomplish  this  scheme,  and  he  found  in  the 
results  nothing  left  to  be  desired.  They  furnished  him  with 
a  capital  of  ready  money,  but  his  old  acquaintances  discovered 
the  foul  trick  he  had  played,  and  gave  him  a  wide  berth.  No 
more  gigantic  combinations  were  possible  to  him,  save  with 
swindlers  like  himself,  who  would  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  him 
as  readily  and  as  mercilessly  as  he  had  sacrificed  his  rural 
victims. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  had  been  absent  a  month  when  he  one 
day  received  a  polite  note  from  Mr.  Balfour,  as  Paul  Bene 
dict's  attorney,  requesting  him,  on  behalf  of  his  principal,  to 
pay  over  to  him  an  equitable  share  of  the  profits  upon  his 
patented  inventions,  and  to  enter  into  a  definite  contract  for 
the  further  use  of  them. 

The  request  came  in  so  different  a  form  from  what  he  had 
anticipated,  and  was  so  tamely  courteous,  that  he  laughed  over 
the  note  in  derision.  "  Milk  for  babes  !"  he  exclaimed,  and 
laughed  again.  Either  Balfour  was  a  coward,  or  he  felt  that 
his  case  was  a  weak  one.  Did  he  think  the  General  was  a 
fool? 


SEVENOAKS.  357 

Without  taking  the  note  to  Cavendish,  who  had  told  him 
to  bring  ten  thousand  dollars  when  he  came  again,  and  with« 
out  consulting  anybody,  he  wrote  the  following  note  in  an 
swer  : — 

"  To  James  Balfour,  Esq.  r 

"  Your  letter  of  this  date  received,  and  contents  noted. 
Permit  me  to  say  in  reply : 

"  ist.  That  I  have  no  evidence  that  you  are  Paul  Benedict's 
attorney. 

"  2d.  That  I  have  no  evidence  that  Paul  Benedict  is  living, 
and  that  I  do  not  propose  to  negotiate  in  any  way,  on  any 
business,  with  a  fraud,  or  a  man  of  straw. 

"  3d.  That  I  am  the  legal  assignee  of  all  the  patents  origi 
nally  issued  to  Paul  Benedict,  which  I  have  used  and  am  now 
using.  I  hold  his  assignment  in  the  desk  on  which  I  write 
this  letter,  and  it  stands  duly  recorded  in  Washington,  though, 
from  my  ignorance  of  the  law,  it  has  only  recently  been  placed 
upon  the  books  in  the  Patent  Office. 

"Permit  me  to  say,  in  closing,  that,  as  I  bear  you  no 
malice,  I  will  show  you  the  assignment  at  your  pleasure,  and 
thus  relieve  you  from  the  danger  of  entering  upon  a  conspi 
racy  to  defraud  me  of  rights  which  I  propose,  with  all  the 
means  at  my  disposal,  to  defend. 

"Yours,  ROBERT  BELCHER." 

Mr.  Belcher  read  over  this  letter  with  great  satisfaction.  It 
seemed  to  him  very  dignified  and  very  wise.  He  had  saved 
his  ten  thousand  dollars  for  a  while,  at  least,  and  bluffed,  as 
he  sincerely  believed,  his  dreaded  antagonist. 

Mr.  Balfour  did  more  than  to  indulge  in  his  professional 
smile,  over  the  frank  showing  of  the  General's  hand,  and  the 
voluntary  betrayal  of  his  line  of  defence.  He  filed  away  the 
note  among  the  papers  relating  to  the  case,  took  his  hat, 
walked  across  the  street,  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  up  his  card 
to  Mr.  Belcher.  That  self-complacent  gentleman  had  not  ex« 
pected  this  visit,  although  he  had  suggeste4  it.  Instead,  there 


358  SEVEN  OAKS. 

fore,  of  inviting  Mr.  Balfcmr  to  his  library,  he  went  down  t4 
the  drawing-room,  where  ho  found  his  visitor,  quietly  sitting 
with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  The  most  formal  of  courtesies 
opened  the  conversation,  and  Mr.  Balfour  stated  his  business 
at  once.  "  You  were  kind  enough  to  offer  to  show  me  the 
assignment  of  Mr.  Benedict's  patents,"  he  said.  "I  have 
called  to  see  it." 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  said  the  General. 

"  Do  you  suspect  me  of  wishing  to  steal  it?"  inquired  Mr. 
Balfour. 

"  No,  but  the  fact  is,  I  wrote  my  note  to  you  without  con 
sulting  my  lawyer." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.     "Good-day,  sir." 

"No  offence,  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  with  a  peculiar 
toss  of  the  head,  and  a  laugh. 

"  Not  the  least,"  said  the  lawyer,  passing  out  of  the  door. 

The  General  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He  was  in 
the  habit  of  making  mistakes  in  those  days.  The  habit  was 
growing  upon  him.  Indeed,  he  suspected  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  not  boldly  exhibiting  his  assignment.  How  to 
manage  a  lie,  and  not  be  managed  by  it,  was  a  question  that 
had  puzzled  wiser  heads  than  that  of  the  General.  He  found 
an  egg  in  his  possession  that  he  was  not  ready  to  eat,  though 
it  was  too  hot  to  be  held  long  in  either  hand,  and  could  not 
be  dropped  without  disaster. 

For  a  week,  he  was  haunted  with  the  expectation  of  a  suit, 
but  it  was  not  brought,  and  then  he  began  to  breathe  easier, 
and  to  feel  that  something  must  be  done  to  divert  his  mind 
from  the  subject.  He  drank  freely,  and  was  loud-mouthed 
and  blustering  on  the  street.  Poor  Talbot  had  a  hard  time, 
in  endeavoring  to  shield  him  from  his  imprudences.  He 
saw  that  his  effort  to  make  his  principal  "last "  was  not  likely 
to  be  successful. 

Rallied  by  his  "friends"  on  his  ill  luck,  the  General  de 
clared  that  he  only  speculated  for  fun.  He  knew  what  he 
was  about.  He  ne^  er  risked  any  money  that  he  could  no? 


SEVEN  OAKS.  359 

afforu  to  lose.  Everybody  had  his  amusement,  and  this  was 
his. 

He  was  secure  for  some  months  in  his  seat  as  President  of 
the  Crooked  Valley  Railroad,  and  calculated,  of  course,  on 
buying  back  his  stock  in  his  own  time,  at  his  own  price.  In 
the  meantime,  he  would  use  his  position  for  carrying  on  his 
private  schemes. 

The  time  came  at  last  when  he  wanted  more  ready  money. 
A  grand  combination  had  been  made,  among  his  own  un 
principled  set,  for  working  up  a  "corner"  in  the  Muscogee 
Air  Line,  and  he  had  been  invited  into  it.  He  was  flattered 
by  the  invitation,  and  saw  in  it  a  chance  for  redeeming  his 
position,  though,  at  bottom,  the  scheme  was  one  for  working 
up  a  corner  in  Robert  Belcher. 

Under  the  plea  that  he  expected,  at  no  distant  day,  to  go 
to  Europe,  for  rest  and  amusement,  he  mortgaged  his  house, 
in  order,  as  he  declared,  that  he  might  handle  it  the  more  easily 
in  the  market.  But  Wall  street  knew  the  fact  at  once,  and 
made  its  comments.  Much  to  the  proprietor's  disgust,  it 
was  deemed  of  sufficient  importance  to  find  mention  in  the 
daily  press. 

But  even  the  sum  raised  upon  his  house,  united  with  that 
which  he  had  received  from  unloading  his  Crooked  Valley 
stock,  was  not  sufficient  to  give  him  the  preponderance  in  the 
grand  combination  which  he  desired. 

He  still  held  a  considerable  sum  in  Crooked  Valley  bonds, 
for  these  were  valuable.  He  had  already  used  these  as  col 
laterals,  in  the  borrowing  of  small  sums  at  short  time,  to 
meet  emergencies  in  his  operations.  It  was  known  by  money 
lenders  that  he  held  them.  Now  the  General  was  the  manu 
facturer  of  these  bonds.  The  books  of  the  corporation  were 
under  his  control,  and  he  intended  that  they  should  remain 
so.  It  was  very  easy  for  him  to  make  an  over-issue,  and  hard 
for  him  to  be  detected  in  his  fraud,  by  any  one  who  would  be 
dangerous  to  him.  The  temptation  to  make  this  issue  was 
one  which  better  men  than  he  had  yielded  to  in  a  weak 


360  SEVENOAKS. 

moment,  and,  to  the  little  conscience  which  he  possessed,  the 
requisite  excuses  were  ready.  He  did  not  intend  that  any 
one  should  lose  money  by  these  bonds.  He  only  proposed  a 
temporary  relief  to  himself.  So  he  manufactured  the  bonds, 
and  raised  the  money  he  wanted. 

Meantime,  the  members  of  the  very  combination  in  which 
he  had  engaged,  having  learned  of  his  rascally  operation  with 
the  stock,  were  secretly  buying  it  back  from  the  dupes  along 
the  road,  at  their  own  figures,  with  the  purpose  of  ousting 
him  from  the  management,  and  taking  the  road  to  themselves. 
Of  this  movement  he  did  not  learn,  until  it  was  too  late  to  be 
of  use  to  him. 

It  was  known,  in  advance,  by  the  combination,  that  the 
working  up  of  the  corner  in  Muscogee  Air  Line  would  be  a 
long  operation.  The  stock  had  to  be  manipulated  with  great 
care,  to  avoid  exciting  a  suspicion  of  the  nature  of  the 
scheme,  and  the  General  had  informed  the  holders  of  his 
notes  that  it  might  be  necessary  for  him  to  renew  them  before 
he  should  realize  from  his  operations.  He  had  laid  all  his 
plans  carefully,  and  looked  forward  with  an  interest  which 
none  but  he  and  those  of  his  kind  could  appreciate,  to  the 
excitements,  intrigues,  marches  and  counter- marches  of  the 
mischievous  campaign. 

And  then  came  down  upon  him  the  prosecution  which  he 
had  so  long  dreaded,  and  for  which  he  had  made  the  only 
preparation  consistent  with  his  greedy  designs.  Ten  thousand 
dollars  of  his  ready  money  passed  at  once  into  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Cavendish,  and  Mr.  Cavendish  was  satisfied  with  the  fee, 
whatever  may  have  been  his  opinion  of  the  case.  After  a  last 
examination  of  his  forged  assignment,  and  the  putting  of 
Phipps  to  an  exhaustive  and  satisfactory  trial  of  his  memory 
with  relation  to  it,  he  passed  it  into  the  lawyer's  hands,  and 
went  about  his  business  with  uncomfortable  forebodings  of 
the  trial  and  its  results. 

It  was  strange,  even  to  him,  at  this  point  of  his  career,  that 
he  felt  within  himself  no  power  to  change  his  course.  No 


SEVENOAKS.  361 

one  knew  better  than  he,  that  there  was  money  enough  in 
Benedict's  inventions  for  both  inventor  and  manufacturer. 
No  one  knew  better  than  he,  that  there  was  a  prosperous 
course  for  himself  inside  the  pale  of  equity  and  law,  yet  he 
found  no  motive  to  walk  there.  For  the  steps  he  had  taken, 
there  seemed  no  retreat.  He  must  go  on,  on,  to  the  end. 
The  doors  that  led  back  to  his  old  life  had  closed  behind  him. 
Those  which  opened  before  were  not  inviting,  but  he  could 
not  stand  still.  So  he  hardened  his  face,  braced  his  nerves, 
stiffened  his  determination,  and  went  on. 

Of  course  he  passed  a  wretched  summer.  He  had  intended 
to  get  away  for  rest,  or,  rather,  for  an  exhibition  of  himself 
and  his  equipage  at  Newport,  or  Saratoga,  or  Long  Branch  \ 
but  through  all  the  burning  days  of  the  season  he  was  obliged 
to  remain  in  the  city,  while  other  men  were  away  and  off 
their  guard,  to  watch  his  Wall  street  operations,  and  prepare 
for  the  coup  de  grace  by  which  he  hoped  to  regain  his  lost 
treasure  and  his  forfeited  position.  The  legal  trial  that 
loomed  up  before  him,  among  the  clouds  of  autumn,  could 
not  be  contemplated  without  a  shiver,  and  a  sinking  of  the 
heart.  His  preparations  for  it  were  very  simple,  as  they 
mainly  related  to  the  establishment  of  the  genuineness  of  his 
assignment. 

The  months  flew  away  more  rapidly  with  the  proprietor 
*han  with  any  of  the  other  parties  interested  in  the  suit,  and 
when,  at  last,  only  a  fortnight  was  wanting  to  the  time  of 
the  expected  trial,  Mr.  Balfour  wrote  to  Number  Nine,  order 
ing  his  family  home,  and  requiring  the  presence  of  Mr.  Bene 
dict,  Mrs.  Dillingham,  Harry  and  Jim. 

Just  at  this  time,  the  General  found  himself  in  fresh  diffi 
culty.  The  corner  in  Muscogee  Air  Line,  was  as  evasive  as 
a  huckleberry  in  a  mouth  bereft  of  its  armament.  Indeed, 
to  use  still  further  the  homely  but  suggestive  figure,  the  Gen 
eral  found  that  his  tongue  was  in  more  danger  than  his  huck 
leberry.  His  notes,  too,  secured  by  fraudulent  collaterals, 
were  approaching  a  second  and  third  maturity.  He  was 
16 


362  SEVENOAKS. 

without  ready  money  for  the  re-purchase  of  his  Crooked 
Valley  stock,  and  had  learned,  in  addition,  that  the  stock 
had  already  changed  hands,  in  the  execution  of  a  purpose 
which  he  more  than  suspected.  Large  purchases  of  material 
for  the  execution  of  heavy  contracts  in  his  manufactures  had 
drained  his  ready  resources,  in  the  department  of  his  regular 
,  business.  He  was  getting  short,  and  into  a  tight  place.  Still 
he  was  desperate,  and  determined  to  sacrifice  nothing. 

Mr.  Benedict  and  Jim,  on  their  arrival  in  the  city,  took  up 
their  residence  in  Mrs.  Dillingham's  house,  and  the  landlord 
of  Number  Nine  spent  several  days  in  making  the  acquaint 
ance  of  the  city,  under  the  guidance  of  his  old  companion, 
who  was  at  home.  Jim  went  through  a  great  mental  convul 
sion.  At  first,  what  seemed  to  him  the  magnitude  of  the  life, 
enterprise  and  wealth  of  the  city,  depressed  him.  He  de 
clared  that  he  "had  ben  growin'  smaller  an'  smaller  every 
minute"  since  he  left  Sevenoaks.  "I  felt  as  if  I'd  allers 
ben  a  fly,  crawlin'  'round  on  the  edge  of  a  pudden,"  he  said, 
when  asked  whether  he  enjoyed  the  city.  But  before  the 
trial  came  on,  he  had  fully  recovered  his  old  equanimity. 
The  city  grew  smaller  the  more  he  explored  it,  until,  when 
compared  with  the  great  woods,  the  lonely  rivers,  and  the 
broad  solitudes  in  which  he  had  spent  his  life,  it  seemed  like 
a  toy ;  and  the  men  who  chaffered  in  the  market,  and  the 
women  who  thronged  the  avenues,  or  drove  in  the  park,  or 
filled  the  places  of  amusement,  came  to  look  like  children, 
engaged  in  frolicsome  games.  He  felt  that  people  who  had  so 
little  room  to  breathe  in  must  be  small ;  and  before  the  trial 
brought  him  into  practical  contact  with  them,  he  was  himself 
again,  and  quite  ready  to  meet  them  in  any  encounter  which 
required  courage  or  address. 


CHAPTER     XXVI. 

IN  WHICH   THE  CASE  OF  "  BENEDICT  VS.    BELCHER*'  FINDS   ITSELJ? 
IN  COURT,  AN  INTERESTING  QUESTION  OF    IDENTITY 
IS  SETTLED,  AND  A  MYSTERIOUS  DIS 
APPEARANCE  TAKES  PLACE. 

' '  OYEZ  !  Oyez  f  All-persons-having-business-to-do-with-the- 
Circuit-  Court-qf-the-  United-States-for-the  -  Southern- District- of- 
New-  York,  -draw  -  near,  -give-your-attention,  -and -you  -  shall-  be- 
heard." 

"  That's  the  crier,"  whispered  Mr.  Benedict  to  Jim. 

"  What's  the  matter  of  'im  ?"  inquired  the  latter. 

"  That's  the  way  they  open  the  court." 

"Well,  if  he  opens  it  with  cryin',  he'll  have  a  tough  time  a 
shuttin'  on  it,"  responded  Jim,  in  a  whisper  so  loud  that  he 
attracted  attention. 

There  within  the  bar  sat  Mr.  Balfour,  calmly  examining  his 
papers.  He  looked  up  among  the  assembled  jurors,  witness 
es  and  idlers,  and  beckoned  Benedict  to  his  side.  There  saf 
Robert  Belcher  with  his  counsel.  The  great  rascal  was  flashilj 
dressed,  with  a  stupendous  show  of  shirt-front,  over  which  fell, 
down  by  the  side  of  the  diamond  studs,  a  heavy  gold  chain. 
Brutality,  vulgarity,  self-assurance  and  an  over-bearing  will, 
all  expressed  themselves  in  his  broad  face,  bold  eyes  and 
heavy  chin.  Mr.  Cavendish,  with  his  uneasy  scalp,  white  hands, 
his  scornful  lips  and  his  thin,  twitching  nostrils,  looked  the 
very  impersonation  of  impatience  and  contempt.  If  the  whole 
court-room  had  been  thronged  with  vermin  instead  of  human 
beings,  among  which  he  was  obliged  to  sit,  he  could  not  have 
appeared  more  disgusted.  Quite  retired  among  the  audience, 
and  deeply  veiled,  sat  Mrs.  Dillingham.  Mr.  Belcher  detect- 

363 


364  SEVEN  OAKS. 

ed  her,  and,  though  he  could  not  see  her  face,  felt  that  he 
could  not  be  mistaken  as  to  her  identity.  Why  was  she  there  ? 
Why,  but  to  notice  the  progress  and  issue  of  the  trial,  in  her 
anxiety  for  him  ?  He  was  not  glad  to  see  her  there. 

He  beckoned  for  Phipps,  who  sat  uneasily,  with  a  scared 
look  upon  his  face,  among  the  crowd. 

"  Is  that  Mrs.  Dillingham  ?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

Phipps  assured  him  that  it  was.  Then  Mr.  Belcher  wrote 
upon  his  card  the  words  :  "  Do  not,  for  my  sake,  remain  in 
this  room." 

"  Give  this  to  her,"  he  said  to  his  servant. 

The  card  was  delivered,  but  the  lady,  quite  to  his  surprise, 
did  not  stir.  He  thought  of  his  little  book,  but  it  seemed 
impossible  that  his  idol,  who  had  so  long  been  hidden  from 
his  sight  and  his  knowledge,  could  betray  him. 

A  jury  was  empanneled,  the  case  of  Benedict  vs.  Belcher 
was  called,  and  the  counsel  of  both  parties  declared  them 
selves  ready  for  the  trial. 

The  suit  was  for  damages,  in  the  sum  of  half  a  million  dol 
lars,  for  the  infringement  of  patents  on  machines,  implements 
and  processes,  of  which  it  was  declared  that  the  plaintiff  was 
the  first  and  only  inventor.  The  answer  to  the  complaint  al 
leged  the  disappearance  and  death  of  Benedict,  and  declared 
the  plaintiff  to  be  an  impostor,  averred  the  assignment  of  all 
The  patents  in  question  to  the  defendant,  and  denied  the  pro 
fits. 

The  judge,  set  somewhat  deep  in  his  shirt-collar,  as  if  his 
head  and  his  heart  were  near  enough  together  to  hold  easy 
communication,  watched  the  formal  proceedings  listlessly,  out 
of  a  pair  of  pleasant  eyes,  and  when  they  were  completed, 
nodded  to  Mr.  Balfour,  in  indication  that  he  was  ready  to 
proceed. 

Mr.  Balfour,  gathering  his  papers  before  him,  rose  to  make 
the  opening  for  the  prosecution. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  he  said,  "and  gentlemen  ol 
the  jury.  I  have  to  present  to  you  a  case,  either  issue  of  which 


SEVENOAKS.  365 

it  is  not  pleasant  for  me  to  contemplate.  Either  my  client 
or  the  defendant  will  go  out  of  this  court,  at  the  conclusion 
of  this  case,  a  blackened  man  ;  aiid,  as  I  have  a  warm  friend 
ship  for  one  of  them,  and  bear  no  malice  to  the  other,  I  am 
free  to  confess  that,  while  I  seek  fcr  justice,  I  shrink  from  the 
results  of  its  vindication." 

Mr.  Cavendish  jumped  up  and  interjected  spitefully :  "  I 
beg  the  gentleman  to  spare  us  his  hypothetical  sentiment.  It 
is  superfluous,  so  far  as  my  client  is  concerned,  and  offensive." 

Mr.  Balfour  waited  calmly  for  the  little  explosion  and  the 
clearing  away  of  the  smoke,  and  then  resumed.  "I  take  no 
pleasure  in  making  myself  offensive  to  the  defendant  and  nis 
counsel,"  said  he,  "  but,  if  I  am  interrupted,  I  shall  be  com 
pelled  to  call  things  by  their  right  names,  and  to  do  some 
thing  more  than  hint  at  the  real  status  of  this  case.  I  see  other 
trials,  in  other  courts,  at  the  contusion  of  this  action, — other 
trials  with  graver  issues.  I  could  not  look  forward  to  then? 
with  any  pleasure,  without  acknowledging  myself  to  be  aknave. 
I  could  not  refrain  from  alluding  to  them,  without  convicting 
myself  of  carelessness  and  frivolity.  Something  more  than 
money  is  involved  in  the  issue  of  this  action.  Either  the 
plaintiff  or  the  defendant  will  go  out  of  this  court  wrecked  in 
character,  blasted  in  reputation,  utterly  ruined.  The  terms 
of  the  bill  and  the  answer  determine  this  result." 

Mr.  Cavendish  sat  through  this  exordium  as  if  he  sat  OIY 
nettles,  but  wisely  held  his  tongue,  while  the  brazen-faced 
proprietor  leaned  carelessly  over,  and  whispered  to  his  coun 
sel.  Phipps,  on  his  distant  seat,  grew  white  around  the  lips, 
and  felt  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  the  most  serious  danger 
of  his  life. 

"The  plaintiff,  in  this  case,"  Mr.  Balfour  went  on, 
"brings  an  action  for  damages  for  the  infringement  of  various 
patent  rights.  I  shall  prove  to  you  that  these  patents  were 
issued  to  him,  as  the  first  and  only  inventor  ;  that  he  has 
never  assigned  them  to  any  one  ;  that  they  have  been  used  by 
the  defendant  for  from  seven  to  ten  years,  to  his  great  profit  j 


366  SEVEN  OAKS. 

that  he  is  using  them  still  without  a  license,  and  without  ren 
dering  a  just  consideration  for  them.  I  shall  prove  to  you 
that  the  defendant  gained  his  first  possession  of  these  inven 
tions  by  a  series  of  misrepresentations,  false  promises,  oppres 
sions  and  wrongs,  and  has  used  them  without  license  in 
consequence  of  the  weakness,  illness,  poverty  and  defence* 
lessness  of  their  rightful  owner.  I  shall  prove  to  you  that  their 
owner  was  driven  to  insanity  by  these  perplexities  and  the 
persecutions  of  the  defendant,  and  that  even  after  he  became 
insane,  the  defendant  tried  to  secure  the  execution  of  the 
assignment  which  he  had  sought  in  vain  during  the  sanity  of 
the  patentee. 

"I  will  not  characterize  by  the  name  belonging  to  it 
the  instrument  which  is  to  be  presented  in  answer  to  the  bill 
filed  in  this  case,  further  than  to  say  that  it  has  no  legal 
status  whatsoever.  It  is  the  consummate  fruit  of  a  tree  that 
was  planted  in  fraud  ;  and  if  I  do  not  make  it  so  to  appear,  be 
fore  the  case  is  finished,  I  will  beg  pardon  of  the  court,  of  you, 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  and  especially  of  the  defendant  and 
his  honorable  counsel.  First,  therefore,  I  offer  in  evidence 
certified  copies  of  the  patents  in  question." 

Mr.  Balfour  read  these  documents,  and  they  were  examined 
both  by  Mr.  Cavendish  and  the  court. 

The  name  of  Paul  Benedict  was  then  called,  as  the  first 
w.'  mess. 

Mr.  Benedict  mounted  the  witness  stand.  He  was  pale  and 
quiet,  with  a  pink  tinge  on  either  cheek.  He  had  the  bearing 
and  dress  of  a  gentleman,  and  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
coarse,  bold  man  to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  so  many 
wrongs  and  indignities.  He  was  at  last  in  the  place  to  which 
he  had  looked  forward  with  so  much  dread,  but  there  came 
to  him  a  calmness  and  a  self-possession  which  he  had  not 
anticipated.  He  was  surrounded  by  powerful  friends.  He 
was  menaced,  too,  by  powerful  enemies,  and  all  his  manhood 
was  roused. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  asked  Mr.  Balfour. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  367 

"  Paul  Benedict." 

"  Where  were  you  born  ?  " 

"  In  the  city  of  New  York." 

"Are  you  the  inventor  of  the  machines,  implements  and 
processes  named  in  the  documents  from  the  Patent  Office 
which  have  just  been  read  in  your  hearing?  " 

"lam,  sir." 

"  And  you  are  the  only  owner  of  all  these  patent  rights?  " 

"lam,  sir." 

"  What  is  your  profession  ?  " 

"  I  was  trained  for  a  mechanical  engineer." 

"  What  has  been  your  principal  employment  ?  " 

"  Invention." 

"  When  you  left  New  York,  whither  did  you  go?" 

"To  Sevenoaks." 

"  How  many  years  ago  was  that  ?  " 

"  Eleven  or  twelve,  I  suppose." 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  tell  to  the  Court,  in  a  plain,  brief  way, 
the  history  of  your  life  in  Sevenoaks,  giving  with  sufficient 
detail  an  account  of  all  your  dealings  with  the  defendant  in 
this  case,  so  that  we  may  perfectly  understand  how  your  in 
ventions  came  into  Mr.  Belcher's  hands,  and  why  you  have 
never  derived  any  benefit  from  them. ' ' 

It  was  a  curious  illustration  of  the  inventor's  nature  that, 
at  this  moment,  with  his  enemy  and  tormentor  before  him, 
he  shrank  from  giving  pain.  Mr.  Cavendish  noticed  his  hesi 
tation,  and  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant.  "  May  it  please  the 
court,"  said  he,  "  there  is  a  question  concerning  identity  that 
comes  up  at  this  point,  and  I  beg  the  privilege  of  asking  it  here. ' ' 

The  judge  looked  at  Mr.  Balfour,  and  the  latter  said: 
"  Certainly." 

"  I  would  like  to  ask  the  witness,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish, 
"  whether  he  is  the  Paul  Benedict  who  left  the  city  about  the 
time  at  which  he  testifies  that  he  went  away,  in  consequence 
of  his  connection  with  a  band  of  counterfeiters.  Did  you, 
sir,  invent  their  machinery,  or  did  you  not?  " 


368  SEVENOAKS. 

"I  did  not/'  answered  the  witness — his  face  all  aflame. 
The  idea  that  he  could  be  suspected,  or  covertly  charged,  with 
crime,  in  the  presence  of  friends  and  strangers,  was  so  terrible 
that  the  man  tottered  on  his  feet. 

Mr.    Cavendish   gave   a   significant   glance   at  his  client, 
whose  face  bloomed  with  a  brutal  smile,  and  then  sat  down. 
"Is  that  all?"  inquired  Mr.  Balfour. 
"All,  for  the  present,"  responded  Mr.  Cavendish,  sneer- 
ingly,  and  with  mock  courtesy. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "I  hope  I 
may  be  permitted  to  say  that  the  tactics  of  the  defendant  are 
worthy  of  his  cause."  Then  turning  to  Mr.  Benedict,  he 
said,  "  I  trust  the  witness  will  not  be  disturbed  by  the  insult 
that  has  been  gratuitously  offered  him,  and  will  tell  the  his 
tory  which  I  have  asked  him  to  tell." 

Mr.  Cavendish  had  made  a  mistake.  At  this  insult,  and 
the  gratification  which  it  afforded  Mr.  Belcher,  the  inventor's 
pity  died  out  of  him,  and  he  hardened  to  his  work. 

"  When  I  went  to  Sevenoaks,"  said  he,  "I  was  very  poor, 
as  I  have  always  been  since.  I  visited  Mr.  Belcher's  mill, 
and  saw  how  great  improvements  could  be  made  in  his 
machines  and  processes ;  and  then  I  visited  him,  and  told  him 
what  I  could  do  for  him.  He  furnished  me  with  money  for 
my  work,  and  for  securing  the  patents  on  my  inventions,  with 
the  verbal  promise  that  I  should  share  in  such  profits  as  might 
accrue  from  their  use.  He  was  the  only  man  who  had  money ; 
he  was  the  only  man  who  could  use  the  inventions ;  and  he 
kept  me  at  work,  until  he  had  secured  everything  that  he 
wished  for.  In  the  meantime,  I  suffered  for  the  lack  of  the 
necessaries  of  life,  and  was  fed  from  day  to  day,  and  month 
to  month,  and  year  to  year,  on  promises.  He  never  rendered 
me  any  returns,  declared  that  the  patents  were  nearly 
useless  to  him,  and  demanded,  as  a  consideration  for  the 
money  he  had  advanced  to  me,  the  assignment  of  all  my 
patents  to  him.  My  only  child  was  born  in  the  midst  of  my 
early  trouble,  and  such  were  the  privations  to  which  my  wife 


SEVENOAKS.  369 

was  subjected  that  she  never  saw  a  day  of  health  after  the 
event.  She  died  at  last,  and  in  the  midst  of  my  deepest  trou 
bles,  Mr.  Belcher  pursued  me  with  his  demands  for  the  assign 
ment  of  my  patents.  He  still  held  me  to  him  by  the  bestowal 
of  small  sums,  which  necessity  compelled  me  to  accept.  He 
always  had  a  remarkable  power  over  me,  and  I  felt  that  he 
would  lead  me  to  destruction.  I  saw  the  hopes  of  years  melt 
ing  away,  and  knew  that  in  time  he  would  beat  down  my  will, 
and,  on  his  own  terms,  possess  himself  of  all  the  results  of 
my  years  of  study  and  labor.  I  saw  nothing  but  starvation 
before  me  and  my  child,  and  went  down  into  a  horror  of  great 
darkness." 

A  cold  shiver  ran  over  the  witness,  and  his  face  grew  pale 
and  pinched,  at  this  passage  of  his  story.  The  court-house 
was  as  still  as  midnight.  Even  the  General  lost  his  smile, 
and  leaned  forward,  as  if  the  narration  concerned  some  mon 
ster  other  than  himself. 

"What  then?"  inquired  Mr,  Balfour. 
"  I  hardly  know.  Everything  that  I  remember  after  that 
was  confused  and  terrible.  For  years  I  was  insane.  I  went 
to  the  hospital,  and  was  there  supported  by  Mr.  Belcher.  He 
even  followed  me  there,  and  endeavored  to  get  my  signature 
to  an  assignment,  but  was  positively  forbidden  by  the  super 
intendent  of  the  asylum.  Then,  after  being  pronounced  in* 
curable,  I  was  sent  back  to  the  Sevenoaks  alms-house,  where, 
for  a  considerable  time,  my  boy  was  also  kept ;  and  from  that 
horrible  place,  by  the  aid  of  a  friend,  I  escaped.  I  remem 
ber  it  all  as  a  long  dream  of  torture.  My  cure  came  in  the 
woods,  at  Number  Nine,  where  I  have  ever  since  lived,  and 
where  twice  I  have  been  sought  and  found  by  paid  emissaries 
of  Mr.  Belcher,  who  did  not  love  him  well  enough  to  betray 
me.  And,  thanks  to  the  ministry  of  the  best  friends  that  God 
ever  raised  up  to  a  man,  I  am  here  to-day  to  claim  my  rights." 
"These  rights,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "these  rights  which  you 
hold  in  your  patented  inventions,  for  all  these  years  used  by 
the  defendant,  you  say  you  have  never  assigned." 

16* 


370  SEVENOAKS. 

"Never." 

"  If  an  assignment  executed  in  due  form  should  be  presented 
to  you,  what  should  you  say?" 

"  I  object  to  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  leaping 
to  his  feet.  "  The  document  has  not  yet  been  presented  to 
him. 

"The  gentleman  is  right,"  said  Mr.  Balfour  ;  "the  witness 
has  never  seen  it.  I  withdraw  the  question ;  and  now  tell  me 
what  you  know  about  Mr.  Belcher's  profits  on  the  use  of  these 
inventions." 

"I  cannot  tell  much,"  replied  Mr.  Benedict.  "I  know 
the  inventions  were  largely  profitable  to  him  ;  otherwise  he 
would  not  have  been  so  anxious  to  own  them.  I  have  never 
had  access  to  his  books,  but  I  know  he  became  rapidly  rich 
on  his  manufactures,  and  that,  by  the  cheapness  with  which 
he  produced  them,  he  was  able  to  hold  the  market,  and  to 
force  his  competitors  into  bankruptcy." 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "I  am  about 
done  with  this  witness,  and  I  wish  to  say,  just  here,  that  if 
the  defendant  stands  by  his  pleadings,  and  denies  his  profits, 
I  shall  demand  the  production  of  his  books  in  Court.  We 
can  get  definite  information  from  them,  at  least."  Then 
bowing  to  Mr.  Benedict,  he  told  him  that  he  had  no  further 
questions  to  ask. 

The  witness  was  about  to  step  down,  when  the  Judge  turned 
to  Mr.  Cavendish,  with  the  question  :  "  Does  the  counsel  for 
the  defendant  wish  to  cross-examine  the  witness?" 

"  May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish  rising, 
"  the  counsel  for  the  defense  regards  the  examination  so  far 
simply  as  a  farce.  We  do  not  admit  that  the  witness  is  Paul 
Benedict,  at  all — or,  rather,  the  Paul  Benedict  named  in  the 
patents,  certified  copies  of  which  are  in  evidence.  The  Paul 
Benedict  therein  named,  has  long  been  regarded  as  dead. 
This  man  has  come  and  gone  for  months  in  Sevenoaks,  among 
the  neighbors  of  the  real  Paul  Benedict,  unrecognized.  He 
says  he  has  lived  for  years  within  forty  miles  of  Sevenoaks, 


SEVENOAKS.  371 

and  at  this  late  day  puts  forward  his  claims.  There  is  nobody 
in  Court,  sir.  We  believe  the  plaintiff  to  be  a  fraud,  and 
this  prosecution  a  put-up  job.  In  saying  this,  I  would  by  no 
means  impugn  the  honor  of  the  plaintiff's  counsel.  Wiser 
men  than  he  have  been  deceived  and  duped,  and  he  may  be 
assured  that  he  is  the  victim  of  the  villainies  or  the  hallucina 
tions  of  an  impostor.  There  are  men  in  this  room,  ready  to 
testify  in  this  case,  who  knew  Paul  Benedict  during  all  his 
residence  in  Sevenoaks ;  and  the  witness  stands  before  them 
at  this  moment  unrecognized  and  unknown.  I  cannot  cross- 
examine  the  witness,  without  recognizing  his  identity  with 
the  Paul  Benedict  named  in  the  patents.  There  is  nothing 
but  a  pretender  in  Court,  may  it  please  your  honor,  and  I  de 
cline  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him." 

Mr.  Cavendish  sat  down,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
"believed  he  had  blasted  the  case  in  the  bud,  and  that  there 
was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  adjourn. 

"It  seems  to  the  Court,  gentlemen,"  said  the  judge  in  a 
quiet  tone,  "  that  this  question  of  identity  should  be  settled 
as  an  essential  preliminary  to  further  proceedings." 

"  May  it  please  your  honor,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  rising,  "I 
did  not  suppose  it  possible,  after  the  plaintiff  had  actually 
appeared  in  court,  and  shown  himself  to  the  defendant,  that 
this  question  of  identity  would  be  mooted  or  mentioned. 
The  defendant  must  know  that  I  have  witnesses  here — that  I 
would  not  appear  here  without  competent  witnesses — who  will 
place  his  identity  beyond  question.  It  seems,  however,  that 
this  case  is  to  be  fought  inch  by  inch,  on  every  possible 
ground.  As  the  first  witness  upon  this  point,  I  shall  call  for 
James  Fenton." 

"Jest  call  me  Jim,"  said  the  individual  named,  from  hia 
distant  seat. 

"  James  Fenton  "  was  called  to  the  stand,  anjd  Mr.  Bene 
dict  stepped  down.  Jim  advanced  through  the  crowd,  his 
hair  standing  very  straight  in  the  air,  and  his  face  illumined 
by  a  smile  that  won  every  heart  in  the  house,  except  those 


372  SEVENOAKS. 

of  the  defendant  and  his  counsel.  A  war-horse  going  into 
battle,  or  a  hungry  man  going  to  his  dinner,  could  not  have 
manifested  more  rampant  alacrity. 

"Hold  up  your  right  hand,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  Sartin,"  said  Jim.     "  Both  on  'em  if  ye  say  so." 
,    "  You   solemnly  swear  m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-    so  help  yon 
God!" 

"  I  raally  wish,  if  ye  ain't  too  tired,  that  ye'd  say  that  over 
agin,"  said  Jim.  "  If  I'm  a  goin'  to  make  a  Happy  David, 
I  want  to  know  what  it  is." 

The  clerk  hesitated,  and  the  judge  directed  him  to  repeat 
the  form  of  the  oath  distinctly.  When  this  was  done,  Jim 
said  :  "  Thank  ye;  there's  nothin'  like  startin'  squar." 

"James  Fenton,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  beginning  a  question. 

"  Jest  call  me  Jim  :  I  ain't  no  prouder  here  nor  I  be  at 
Number  Nine,"  said  the  witness. 

"Very  well,  Jim,"  said  Mr.  Balfour  smiling,  "tell  us  who 
you  are." 

"  I'm  Jim  Fenton,  as  keeps  a  hotel  at  Number  Nine.  My 
father  was  an  Englishman,  my  mother  was  a  Scotchman,  ) 
was  born  in  Ireland,  an'  raised  in  Canady,  an'  I've  lived  in 
Number  Nine  for  more  nor  twelve  year,  huntin',  trappin' 
an'  keepin'  a  hotel.  I  hain't  never  ben  eddicated,  but  I  can 
tell  the  truth  when  it's  necessary,  an'  I  love  my  friends  an' 
hate  my  enemies." 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish  with  a 
sneer,  "I  beg  to  suggest  to  the  plaintiff's  counsel  that  the 
witness  should  be  required  to  give  his  religious  views." 

Mr.  Belcher  laughed,  and  Mr.  Cavendish  sniffed  his  lips, 
as  if  they  had  said  a  good  thing. 

"Certainly,"  responded  Mr.  Balfour.  "What  are  your 
religious  views,  Jim?" 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "I  hain't  got  many,  but  I  sh'd  be 
s'prised  if  there  wasn't  a  brimstone  mine  on  t'other  side,  with 
a  couple  o1  picks  in  it  for  old  Belcher  an'  the  man  as  helps 


SEVENOAKS.  373 

The  laugh  was  on  Mr.  Cavendish.  The  Court  smiled,  the 
audience  roared,  and  order  was  demanded. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish.  "The  religious 
views  of  the  witness  are  definite  and  satisfactory. ' ' 

"  Jim, do  you  know  Paul  Benedict?"  inquired  Mr.  Balfour. 

"Well,  I  do,"  said  Jim.  "  I've  knowed  'im  ever  sence  he 
come  to  Sevenoaks." 

"  How  did  you  make  his  acquaintance?" 

"  He  used  to  come  into  the  woods,  fishin*  an*  huntin*. 
Him  an*  me  was  like  brothers.  He  was  the  curisest  creetur  I 
ever  seen,  an'  I  hope  he  takes  no  'fense  in  hearin'  me  say  so. 
Ye've  seen  his  tackle,  Mr.  Balfour,  an'  that  split  bamboo  o'  his, 
but  the  jedge  hasn't  seen  it.  I  wish  I'd  brung  it  along.  Fond 
of  fishin',  sir?"  And  Jim  turned  blandly  and  patronizingly  to 
the  Court. 

The  Judge  could  not  repress  a  little  ripple  of  amusement, 
which,  from  a  benevolent  mouth,  ran  out  over  his  face. 
Biting  his  lips,  he  said  :  "  The  witness  had  better  be  confined 
to  the  matter  in  hand." 

"  An'  Jedge — no  'fense — but  I  like  yer  looks,  an'  if  ye'll 
come  to  Number  Nine — it's  a  little  late  now — I'll  " — 

Mr.  Cavendish  jumped  up  and  said  fiercely :  "I  object  to 
this  trifling." 

"Jim,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "the  defendant's  counsel  objects 
to  your  trifling.  He  has  a  right  to  do  so,  particularly  as  he 
is  responsible  for  starting  it.  Now  tell  me  whether  the  Paul 
Benedict  you  knew  was  the  only  man  of  the  name  who  has 
lived  in  Sevenoaks  since  you  have  lived  in  Number  Nine?" 

"  He  was  the  only  one  I  ever  hearn  on.  He  was  the  one  as 
invented  Belcher's  machines,  any  way.  He's  talked  about 
'em  with  me  a  thousand  times." 

"Is  he  in  the  room?" 

"Mostly,"  said  Jim,  with  his  bland  smile. 

"  Give  me  a  direct  answer,  now." 

"  Yis,  he's  in  this  room,  and  he's  a  settin'  there  by  you, 


374  SEVENOAKS. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  this  is  the  same  man  who  used  to 
visit  you  in  the  woods,  and  who  invented  Mr.  Belcher's  ma 
chines?" 

"Well,  it's  a  long  story.  I  don't  mind  tellin'  on  it,  if  it 
wouldn'tbetootriflin',"  with  a  comical  wink  at  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"Go  on  and  tell  it,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"  I  knowed  Benedict  up  to  the  time  when  he  lost  his  mind, 
an*  was  packed  off  to  the  'Sylum,  an'  I  never  seen  'im  agin 
till  I  seen  'im  in  the  Sevenoaks'  poor-house.  I  come  acrost 
his  little  boy  one  night  on  the  hill,  when  I  was  a  trampin' 
home.  He  hadn't  nothin'  on  but  rags,  an'  he  was  as  blue  an* 
hungry  as  a  spring  bar.  The  little  feller  teched  me  ye  know— 
teched  my  feelins — an'  I  jest  sot  down  to  comfort  'im.  He 
telled  me  his  ma  was  dead,  and  that  his  pa  was  at  old  Buffum's, 
as  crazy  as  a  loon.  Well,  I  stayed  to  old  Buffum's  that  night, 
an'  went  into  the  poor-house  in  the  mornin',  with  the  doctor. 
I  seen  Benedict  thar,  an'  knowed  him.  He  was  a  lyin1  on 
the  straw,  an'  he  hadn't  does  enough  on  'im  to  put  in  tea. 
An',  says  I,  'Mr.  Benedict,  give  us  your  benediction;'  an', 
says  he,  'Jim  !'  That  floored  me,  an*  I  jest  cried  and  swar'd 
to  myself.  Well,  I  made  a  little  'rangement  with  him  an*  his 
boy,  to  take  'im  to  Abram's  bosom.  Ye  see  he  thought  he 
was  in  hell,  an'  it  was  a  reasomble  thing  in  'im  too ;  an'  I 
telled  'im  that  I'd  got  a  settlement  in  Abram's  bosom,  an'  I 
axed  'im  over  to  spend  the  day.  I  took  'im  out  of  the  poor- 
house  an*  carried  'im  to  Number  Nine,  an'  I  cured  'im.  He's 
lived  there  ever  sence,  helped  me  build  my  hotel,  an'  I  come 
down  with  'im,  to  'tend  this  Court,  an'  we  brung  his  little 
boy  along  too,  an'  the  little  feller  is  here,  an*  knows  him 
better  nor  I  do." 

"And  you  declare,  under  oath,  that  the  Paul  Benedict 
whom  you  knew  in  Sevenoaks,  and  at  Number  Nine — before 
his  insanity — the  Paul  Benedict  who  was  in  the  poor-house  at 
Sevenoaks  and  notoriously  escaped  from  that  institution- 
escaped  by  your  help,  has  lived  with  you  ever  since,  and  has 
appeared  here  in  Court  this  morning,"  said  Mr  Balfour. 


SEVEN  OAKS.  375 

"  He's  the  same  feller,  an'  no  mistake,  if  so  be  he  hain't 
slipped  his  skin,"  said  Jim,  "an'  no  triflin'.  I  make  my 
Happy  David  on't." 

"  Did  Mr.  Belcher  ever  send  into  the  woods  to  find  him?" 

"  Yis,"  said  Jim,  laughing,  "but  I  choked  'em  off." 

"  How  did  you  choke  them  off?" 

"  I  tailed  'em  both  I'd  lick  'em  if  they  ever  blowed.  They 
didn't  want  to  blow  any,  to  speak  on,  but  Mike  Conlin  come 
in  with  a  hundred  dollars  of  Belcher's  money  in  his  jacket, 
an'  helped  me  nuss  my  man  for  a  week ;  an'  I  got  a  Happy 
David  out  o'  Sam  Yates,  an'  ther's  the  dockyment ;"  and  Jim 
drew  from  his  pocket  the  instrument  with  which  the  reader  is 
already  familiar. 

Mr.  Balfour  had  seen  the  paper,  and  told  Jim  that  it  was 
not  necessary  in  the  case.  Mr.  Belcher  looked  very  red  in 
the  face,  and  leaned  over  and  whispered  to  his  lawyer. 

"That  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

Mr.  Cavendish  rose.  "  You  helped  Mr.  Benedict  to  escape, 
lid  you,  Jim?" 

"  I  said  so,"  replied  Jim. 

"  Did  you  steal  the  key  when  you  were  there  first?" 

"No ;  I  borreredit,  an'  brung  it  back  an  left  it  in  the  door." 

"  Did  you  undo  the  fastenings  of  the  outside  door?" 

"Yis,  an'  I  did  'em  up  agin." 

"  Did  you  break  down  the  grated  door?" 

"I  remember  about  somethin'  squeakin'  an'  givin'  'way," 
replied  Jim,  with  a  smile.  "  It  was  purty  dark,  an'  I  couldn't 
Bee  'xactly  what  was  a  goin'  on." 

"Oh  you  couldn't !  We  have  your  confession,  then,  that 
you  are  a  thief  and  a  burglar,  and  that  you  couldn't  see  the 
man  you  took  out." 

"  Well,  now,  Squar.  that  won't  help  ye  any.  Benedict  is 
the  man  as  got  away,  an*  I  saved  the  town  the  board  of  two 
paupers  an'  the  cost  of  two  pine  coffins,  an'  sent  old  Buffum 
where  he  belonged,  an'  nobody  cried  but  his  pertickler  friend 
as  sets  next  to  ye." 


376  SEVENOAKS. 

"  I  beg  the  Court's  protection  for  my  client,  against  the 
insults  of  this  witness,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  When  a  man  calls  Jim  Fenton  a  thief  an'  a  buggler,  he 
must  take  what  comes  on't,"  said  Jim.  "Ye  may  thank  yer 
everlastin'  stars  that  ye  didn't  say  that  to  me  in  the  street, 
for  I  should  'a  licked  ye.  I  should  'a  fastened  that  slippery 
old  scalp  o'  yourn  tighter  nor  a  drum-head." 

"Witness,"  said  the  Judge,  peremptorily,  "you  forget 
where  you  are,  sir.  You  must  stop  these  remarks." 

"  Jedge  look  'ere  !  When  a  man  is  insulted  by  a  lawyer  in 
court,  what  can  he  do?  I'm  a  reasomble  man,  but  I  can't 
take  anybody's  sarse.  It  does  seem  to  me  as  if  a  lawyer  as 
snubs  a  witness  an  calls  'im  names,  wants  dressin'  down  too. 
Give  Jim  Fenton  a  fair  shake,  an*  he's  all  right." 

Jim's  genial  nature  and  his  irrepressible  tongue  were  too 
much  for  the  court  and  the  lawyers  together.  Mr.  Cavendish 
writhed  in  his  seat.  He  could  do  nothing  with  Jim.  Fie 
could  neither  scare  nor  control  him,  and  saw  that  the  witness 
was  only  anxious  for  another  encounter.  It  was  too  evident 
that  the  sympathy  of  the  jury  and  the  increasing  throng  of 
spectators  was  with  the  witness,  and  that  they  took  delight  in 
the  discomfiture  of  the  defendant's  counsel. 

"  May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish, .  "  after 
the  disgraceful  confessions  of  the  witness,  and  the  revelation 
of  his  criminal  character,  it  will  not  comport  with  my  own  self- 
respect  to  question  him  further." 

"Paddlin'  off,  eh?"  said  Jim,  with  a  comical  smile. 

"  Witness,"  said  the  Judge,  "  be  silent  and  step  down. 

"No  'fense,  Jedge,  I  hope?" 

"Step  down,  sir." 

Jim  saw  that  matters  were  growing  serious.  He  liked  the 
Judge,  and  had  intended,  in  some  private  way,  to  explain  the 
condition  of  his  hair  as  attributable  to  his  fright  on  being 
called  into  Court  as  a  witness,  but  he  was  obliged  to  relin 
quish  his  plan,  and  go  back  to  his  seat.  The  expression  of  his 
face  must  have  been  most  agreeable  to  the  spectators,  for  there 


SEVENOAKS.  377 

was  a  universal  giggle  among  them  which  called  out  the  re 
proof  of  the  Court. 

"Helen  Dillingham "  was  next  called  for.  At  the  pro 
nunciation  of  her  name,  and  her  quiet  progress  through  the 
court-room  to  the  stand,  there  was  a  hush  in  which  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  rustle  of  her  own  drapery.  Mr.  Belcher 
gasped,  and  grew  pale.  Here  was  the  woman  whom  he  madly 
loved.  Here  was  the  woman  whom  he  had  associated  with  his 
scheme  of  European  life,  and  around  whom,  more  and  more, 
as  his  difficulties  increased  and  the  possibilities  of  disaster 
presented  themselves,  he  had  grouped  his  hopes  and  gathered 
his  plans.  Had  he  been  the  dupe  of  her  cunning  ?  Was  he 
to  be  the  object  of  her  revenge  ?  Was  he  to  be  betrayed  F 
Her  intimacy  with  Harry  Benedict  began  to  take  on  new  sig 
nificance.  Her  systematic  repulses  of  his  blind  passion  hadi 
an  explanation  other  than  that  which  he  had  given  them 
Mr.  Belcher  thought  rapidly  while  the  formalities  which  pre 
ceded  her  testimony  were  in  progress. 

Every  man  in  the  court-room  leaned  eagerly  forward  to 
catch  her  first  word.  Her  fine  figure,  graceful  carriage  and 
rich  dress  had  made  their  usual  impression. 

"Mrs.  Dillingham,"  said  the  Judge,  with  a  courteous 
bow  and  gesture,  "  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  remove  you* 
veil  ?" 

The  veil  was  quietly  raised  over  her  hat,  and  she  stood  re 
vealed.  She  was  not  pale ;  she  was  fresh  from  the  woods,  and 
in  the  glory  of  renewed  health.  A  murmur  of  admiration 
went  around  the  room  'ike  the  stirring  of  leaves  before  a 
vagrant  breeze. 

"Mrs.  Dillingham/'  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "  where  do  you  ra 
tide?" 

"  In  this  city,  sir.*' 

"  Have  you  always  Mved  here  ?" 

"Always." 

"Do  you  know  Paul  Benedict?" 

"I  do,  sir." 


3/8  SEVENOAKS. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him?" 

"  From  the  time  I  was  born  until  he  left  New  Yor^,  aftet 
his  marriage." 

"  What  is  his  relation  to  you?" 

"  He  is  my  brother,  sir." 

Up  to  this  answer,  she  had  spoken  quietly,  and  in  a  voice 
that  could  only  be  heard  through  the  room  by  the  closest 
attention  ;  but  the  last  answer  was  given  in  a  full,  emphatic 
tone. 

Mr.  Belcher  entirely  lost  his  self-possession.  His  face  grew 
white,  his  eyes  were  wild,  and  raising  his  clenched  fist  he 
brought  it  down  with  a  powerful  blow  upon  the  table  before 
him,  and  exclaimed:  "  My  God  !" 

The  court-room  became  in  an  instant  as  silent  as  death. 
The  Judge  uttered  no  reprimand,  but  looked  inquiringly,  and 
with  unfeigned  astonishment,  at  the  defendant. 

Mr.  Cavendish  rose  and  begged  the  Court  to  overlook  his 
client's  excitement,  as  he  had  evidently  been  taken  off  his 
guard. 

"Paul  Benedict  is  your  brother,  you  say ?"  resumed  Mr. 
Balfour. 

"He  is,  sir." 

"  What  was  his  employment  before  he  left  New  York?" 

"He  was  an  inventor  from  his  childhood,  and  received  a 
careful  education  in  accordance  with  his  mechanical  genius." 

"  Why  did  he  leave  New  York  ?" 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  he  left  in  consequence  of  my 
own  unkindness." 

"  What  was  the  occasion  of  your  unkindness?" 

"  His  marriage  with  one  whom  I  did  not  regard  as  his  owr 
social  equal  or  mine." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?" 

"JaneKendrick." 

"  How  did  you  learn  that  he  was  alive  ?M 

"  Through  his  son,  whom  I  invited  into  my  house,  after  ha 
was  brought  to  this  city  by  yourself. ' ' 


SEVEN  OAKS.  379 

"Have  you  recently  visited  the  cemetery  at  Seven- 
oaks?" 

"I  have,  sir." 

"  Did  you  see  the  grave  of  your  sister-in-law?" 

"I  did." 

"  Was  there  a  headstone  upon  the  grave  ?" 

"  There  was  a  humble  one." 

"  What  inscription  did  it  bear  ?" 

"  Jane  Kendrick,  wife  of  Paul  Benedict." 

"  When  and  where  did  you  see  your  brother  first,  after  your 
separation?" 

"  Early  last  summer  at  a  place  called  Number  Nine." 

"  Did  you  recognise  him?" 

''I  did,  at  once." 

"  Has  anything  occurred,  in  the  intercourse  of  the  summer, 
to  make  you  suspect  that  the  man  whom  you  recognised  as 
your  brother  was  an  impostor?" 

"  Nothing.  We  have  conversed  with  perfect  familiarity  on 
a  thousand  events  and  circumstances  of  our  early  life.  I  know 
him  to  be  my  brother  as  well  as  I  know  my  own  name,  and 
my  own  identity." 

"  That  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"  Mrs.  Dillingham,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish  after  holding  a 
long  whispered  conversation  with  his  client,  "  you  were  glad 
to  find  your  brother  at  last,  were  you  not  ?" 

"Very  glad,  sir." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  was  sorry  for  the  misery  which  I  had  inflicted 
upon  him,  and  to  which  I  had  exposed  him." 

"You  were  the  victim  of  remorse,  as  I  understand  you?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  suppose  so." 

"  Were  you  conscious  that  your  condition  of  mind  unfitted 
you  to  discriminate  ?  Were  you  not  so  anxious  to  find  your 
brother,  in  order  to  quiet  your  conscience,  that  you  were 
easily  imposed  upon." 

"  No,  sir,  to  both  questions." 


*8o  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Well,  madam,  such  things  have  happened.  Have  you 
been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  Mr.  Belcher  at  your  house  ?" 

"I  have." 

"  You  have  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  gentlemen  rathei 
indiscriminately  at  your  house,  haven't  you?" 

"  I  object  to  the  question/'  said  Mr.  Balfour  quickly.  "  It 
carries  a  covert  insult  to  the  witness." 

Mrs.  Dillingham  bowed  to  Mr.  Balfour  in  acknowledgment 
of  his  courtesy,  but  answered  the  question.  "  I  have  received 
you,  sir,  and  Mr.  Belcher.  I  may  have  been  indiscriminate 
in  my  courtesies.  A  lady  living  alone  cannot  always  tell." 

A  titter  ran  around  the  court-room,  in  which  Mr.  Belcher 
joined.  His  admiration  was  too  much  at  the  moment  for  his 
self-interest. 

"  Did  you  know  before  you  went  to  Number  Nine,  that 
your  brother  was  there?"  inquired  Mr.  Cavendish. 

"  I  did,  and  the  last  time  but  one  at  which  Mr.  Belcher 
called  upon  me  I  informed  him  of  the  fact." 

" That  your  brother  was  there?" 

"  No,  that  Paul  Benedict  was  there." 

"  How  did  you  know  he  was  there  ?" 

"  His  little  boy  wrote  me  from  there,  and  told  me  so." 

Mr.  Cavendish  had  found  more  than  he  sought.  He  want 
ed  to  harass  the  witness,  but  he  had  been  withheld  by  his 
client.  Baffled  on  one  hand  and  restrained  on  the  other — 
for  Mr.  Belcher  could  not  give  her  up,  and  learn  to  hate  her 
in  a  moment — he  told  the  witness  he  had  no  more  questions 
to  ask. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  drew  down  her  veil  again,  and  walked  to 
her  seat. 

Harry  Benedict  was  next  called,  and  after  giving  satisfac 
tory  answers  to  questions  concerning  his  understanding  of  the 
nature  of  an  oath,  was  permitted  to  testify. 

"Harry,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "were  you  ever  in  Mr.  Bel 
cher's  house?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


SEVENOAKS.  381 

"  Tell  us  how  it  happened  that  you  were  there." 

"  Mr.  Belcher  stopped  me  in  the  street,  and  led  me  up  the 
steps,  and  then  up  stairs  into  his  room." 

"  What  question  did  he  ask  you  ?" 

"  He  wanted  to  know  whether  my  father  was  alive." 

"  Did  he  offer  you  money  if  you  would  tell  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he  offered  me  a  great  gold  piece  of  money,  and 
told  me  it  was  an  eagle.*' 

"Did  you  take  it?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Did  he  threaten  you  ?  " 

"He  tried  to  scare  me,  sir." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  should  like  to  give  your  father 
some  money  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  did  you  tell  him  that  your  father  was  alive  ?  " 

"No,  sir,  I  ran  away;  "  and  Harry  could  not  restrain  a 
laugh  at  the  remembrance  of  the  scene. 

"Harry,  is  your  father  in  this  room? " 

Harry  looked  at  his  father  with  a  smile,  and  answered, 
"Yes,  sir." 

"  Now,  Harry,  I  want  you  to  pick  him  out  from  all  these 
people.  Be  sure  not  to  make  any  mistake.  Mr.  Belcher  has 
been  so  anxious  to  find  him,  that  I  presume  he  will  be  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  the  information.  Go  and  put  your 
hand  on  him.'* 

Harry  started  at  a  run,  and,  dodging  around  the  end  of  the 
bar,  threw  himself  into  his  father's  arms.  The  performance 
seemed  so  comical  to  the  lad,  that  he  burst  into  a  peal  of 
boyish  laughter,  and  the  scene  had  such  a  pretty  touch  of 
nature  in  it,  that  the  spectators  cheered,  and  were  only  checked 
by  the  stern  reprimand  of  the  judge,  who  threatened  the 
clearing  of  the  room  if  such  a  demonstration  should  again  be 
indulged  in. 

"  Does  the  counsel  for  the  defence  wish  to  cross-examine 
the  witness?  *'  inquired  the  judge. 


3»2  SEVENOAKS. 

'  I  believe  not,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  with  a  nod ;  and  then 
Harry  went  to  his  seat,  at  the  side  of  Jim  Fenton,  who 
hugged  him  so  that  he  almost  screamed.  "  Ye're  a  brick, 
little  feller,"  Jim  whispered.  "  That  was  a  Happy  David,  an' 
a  Goliar  into  the  bargin.  You've  knocked  the  Ph'listine  this 
time  higher  nor  a  kite." 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  "I  have 
witnesses  here  who  knew  Paul  Benedict  during  all  his  resi 
dence  in  Sevenoaks,  and  who  are  ready  to  testify  that  they 
do  not  know  the  person  who  presents  himself  here  to-day,  as 
the  plaintiff  in  this  case.  I  comprehend  the  disadvantage  at 
which  I  stand,  with  only  negative  testimony  at  my  command. 
I  know  how  little  value  it  has,  when  opposed  to  such  as  has 
been  presented  here;  and  while  I  am  convinced  that  my 
client  is  wronged,  I  shall  be  compelled,  in  the  end,  to  accept 
the  identity  of  the  plaintiff  as  established.  If  I  believed 
the  real  Paul  Benedict,  named  in  the  patents  in  question,  in 
this  case,  to  be  alive,  I  should  be  compelled  to  fight  this 
question  to  the  end,  by  every  means  in  my  power,  but  the 
main  question  at  issue,  as  to  whom  the  title  to  these  patents 
rests  in,  can  be  decided  between  my  client  and  a  man  of 
straw,  as  well  as  between  him  and  the  real  inventor.  That  is 
the  first  practical  issue,  and  to  save  the  time  of  the  Court,  J 
propose  to  proceed  to  its  trial ;  and  first  I  wish  to  cross- 
examine  the  plaintiff." 

Mr.  Benedict  resumed  the  stand. 

"Witness,  you  pretend  to  be  the  owner  of  the  patents  in 
question,  in  this  case,  and  the  inventor  of  the  machines,  im 
plements  and  processes  which  they  cover,  do  you?"  said  Mr. 
Cavendish. 

"I  object  to  the  form  of  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 
"  It  is  an  insult  to  the  witness,  and  a  reflection  upon  the  gentle 
man's  own  sincerity,  in  accepting  the  identity  of  the  plaintiff." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  "  since  the  plaintiffs 
counsel  is  so  difficult  to  please  1  You  are  the  owner  of  these 
patents,  are  you?  " 


SEVENOAKS.  383 

"lam,  sir." 

"You  have  been  insane,  have  you  sir?*' 

' '  I  suppose  I  have  been,  sir.  I  was  very  ill  for  a  long  time, 
and  have  no  doubt  that  I  suffered  from  mental  alienation." 

"  What  is  your  memory  of  things  that  occurred  immedi 
ately  preceding  your  insanity?" 

Mr.  Benedict  and  his  counsel  saw  the  bearings  of  this  ques 
tion,  at  once,  but  the  witness  would  no  more  have  lied  than 
he  would  have  stolen,  or  committed  murder.  So  he  answered : 
"It  is  very  much  confused,  sir." 

"  Oh,  it  is  !  I  thought  so  !  Then  you  cannot  swear  to  the 
events  immediately  preceding  your  attack?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot,  sir,  at  least,  not  in  their  order  or 
detail." 

"  No  !  I  thought  so  !  "  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  in  his  con 
temptuous  manner,  and  rasping  voice.  "I  commend  your 
prudence.  Now,  witness,  if  a  number  of  your  neighbors 
should  assure  you  that,  on  the  day  before  your  attack,  you 
did  a  certain  thing,  which  you  do  not  remember  to  have  done, 
how  should  you  regard  their  testimony?  " 

"If  they  were  credible  people,  and  not  unfriendly  to  me, 
I  should  be  compelled  to  believe  them." 

"  Why,  sir!  you  are  an  admirable  witness  !  I  did  not  an 
ticipate  such  candor.  We  are  getting  at  the  matter  bravely. 
We  have  your  confession,  then,  that  you  do  not  remember 
distinctly  the  events  that  occurred  the  day  before  your  attack, 
and  your  assertion  that  you  are  ready  to  believe  and  accept 
the  testimony  of  credible  witnesses  in  regard  to  those 
events." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  Nicholas  Johnson  and  James  Ran* 
sey?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  did  you  see  them  last?" 

"In  Mr.  Belcher's  library." 

"  On  what  occasion,  or,  rather,  at  what  time?" 


384  SEVENOAKS. 

"  I  have  sad  reason  to  remember  both  the  occasion  and  the 
date,  sir.  Mr.  Belcher  had  determined  to  get  my  signature 
to  an  assignment,  and  had  brought  me  to  his  house  on  another 
pretext  entirely.  I  suppose  he  had  summoned  these  men  as 
witnesses." 

"  Where  are  these  men  now?" 

"  Unhappily,  they  are  both  dead." 

"  Yes,  unhappily  indeed — unhappily  for  my  client.  Was 
there  anybody  else  in  the  room?" 

"  I  believe  that  Phipps,  Mr.  Belcher's  man,  was  coming 
and  going." 

"Why,  your  memory  is  excellent,  is  it  not?  And  you  re 
member  the  date  of  this  event  too  !  Suppose  you  tell  us  what 
it  was." 

"  It  was  the  4th  of  May,  1860." 

"  How  confused  you  must  have  been  I"  said  Mr.  Caven 
dish. 

"  These  are  things  that  were  burnt  into  my  memory,"  re 
sponded  the  witness.  "There  were  other  occurrences  that 
day,  of  which  I  have  been  informed,  but  of  which  I  have  no 
memory." 

"  Ah,  there  are !  Well,  I  shall  have  occasion  to  refresh  your 
mind  upon  still  another,  before  I  get  through  with  you. 
Now,  if  I  should  show  you  an  assignment,  signed  by  yourself 
on  the  very  day  you  have  designated,  and  also  signed  by 
Johnson,  Ramsey  and  Phipps  as  witnesses,  what  should  you 
say  to  it?" 

"  I  object  to  the  question.  The  counsel  should  show  the 
document  to  the  witness,  and  then  ask  his  opinion  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Balfour. 

The  Court  coincided  with  Mr.  Balfour's  view,  and  ruled 
Accordingly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  "  we  shall  get  at  that 
in  good  time.  Now,  witness,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell 
me  how  you  remember  that  all  this  occurred  on  the  4th  of 
May,  1860?" 


SEVEN  OAKS.  385 

"It  happened  to  be  the  first  anniversary  of  my  wife's 
death.  I  went  from  her  grave  to  Mr.  Belcher's  house.  The 
day  war  associated  with  the  saddest  and  most  precious  memo 
ries  of  my  life." 

"What  an  excellent  memory  !"  said  Mr.  Cavendish;  rub 
bing  his  white  hands  together.  "  Are  you  familiar  with  the 
signatures  of  Nicholas  Johnson  and  James  Ramsey?" 

"I  have  seen  them  many  times." 

"  Would  you  recognize  them,  if  I  were  to  show  them  to 
you?" 

"I  don't  know  sir." 

"  Oh  !  your  memory  begins  to  fail  now,  does  it  ?  How  is 
it  that  you  cannot  remember  things  with  which  you  were 
familiar  during  a  series  of  years,  when  you  were  perfectly 
sane,  and  yet  can  remember  things  so  well  that  happened 
when  your  mind  was  confused  ?" 

Mr.  Benedict's  mind  was  getting  confused  again,  and  he 
began  to  stammer.  Mr.  Cavendish  wondered  that,  in  some 
way,  Mr.  Balfour  did  not  come  to  the  relief  of  his  witness, 
but  he  sat  perfectly  quiet,  and  apparently  unconcerned.  Mr. 
Cavendish  rummaged  among  his  papers,  and  withdrew  two 
letters.  These  he  handed  to  the  witness.  "  Now,"  said  he, 
"will  the  witness  examine  these  letters,  and  tell  us  whether  he 
recognizes  the  signatures  as  genuine  ?' ' 

Mr.  Benedict  took  the  two  letters,  of  which  he  had  already 
heard  through  Sam  Yates,  and  very  carefully  read  them.  His 
quick,  mechanical  eye  measured  the  length  and  every  pecu 
liarity  of  the  signatures.  He  spent  so  much  time  upon  them 
that  even  the  court  grew  impatient. 

"Take  all  the  time  you  need,  witness,"  said  Mr.   Balfour. 

"All  day,  of  course,  if  necessary,"  responded  Mr.  Caven 
dish  raspingly. 

'*  I  think  these  are  genuine  autograph  letters,  both  of 
them,"  said  Mr.  Benedict. 

"  Thank  you  :  now  please  hand  them  back  to  me." 

;4 1  have  special  reasons  for  requesting  the  Court  to  impound 
17 


386  SEVENOAKS. 

these  letters,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.  "They  will  be  needed 
again  in  the  case." 

"The  witness  will  hand  the  letters  to  the  clerk,"  said  the 
judge. 

Mr.  Cavendish  was  annoyed,  but  acquiesced  gracefully. 
Then  he  took  up  the  assignment,  and  said  :  "Witness,  I  hold 
in  my  hand  a  document  signed,  sealed  and  witnessed  on  the 
4th  day  of  May,  1860,  by  which  Paul  Benedict  conveys  to 
Robert  Belcher  his  title  to  the  patents,  certified  copies  of 
which  have  been  placed  in  evidence.  I  want  you  to  examine 
carefully  your  own  signature,  and  those  of  Johnson  and  Ram 
sey.  Happily,  one  of  the  witnesses  is  still  living,  and  is 
ready,  not  only  to  swear  to  his  own  signature,  but  to  yours 
and  to  those  of  the  other  witnesses." 

Mr.  Cavendish  advanced,  and  handed  Benedict  the  instru 
ment.  The  inventor  opened  it,  looked  it  hurriedly  through, 
and  then  paused  at  the  signatures.  After  examining  them 
long,  with  naked  eyes,  he  drew  a  glass  from  his  pocket,  and 
scrutinized  them  with  a  curious,  absorbed  look,  forgetful,  ap 
parently,  where  he  was. 

"  Is  the  witness  going  to  sleep?"  inquired  Mr.  Cavendish  ; 
but  he  did  not  stir.  Mr.  Belcher  drew  a  large  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket,  and  wiped  his  red,  perspiring  face.  It  was 
an  awful  moment  to  him.  Phipps,  in  his  seat,  was  as  pale  as 
a  ghost,  and  sat  watching  his  master. 

At  last  Mr.  Benedict  looked  up.  He  seemed  as  if  he  had 
been  deprived  of  the  power  of  speech.  His  face  was  full  of 
pain  and  fright.  "I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  this,"  he 
said. 

"  Oh,  you  don't !  I  thought  you  wouldn't !  Still,  we 
should  like  to  know  your  opinion  of  the  instrument,"  said 
Mr.  Cavendish. 

"I  don't  think  you  would  like  to  know  it,  sir,"  said  Bene 
dict,  quietly. 

"What  does  the  witness  insinuate?"  exclaimed  the  lawyer, 
jumping  to  his  feet.  "  No  insinuations,  sirl" 


SEVENOAKS.  387 

"Insinuations  are  very  apt  to  breed  insinuations,"  said  the 
Judge,  quietly.  "The  witness  has  manifested  no  disinclina 
tion  to  answer  your  direct  questions." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish.  "Is  your  signature  at 
the  foot  of  that  assignment?" 

"It  is  not,  sir." 

"Perhaps  those  are  not  the  signatures  of  the  witnesses," 
said  Mr.  Cavendish,  with  an  angry  sneer. 

"  Two  of  them,  I  have  no  doubt,  are  forgeries,"  responded 
Mr.  Balfour,  with  an  excited  voice. 

Mr.  Cavendish  knew  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  manifest  an- 
ger;  so  he  laughed.  Then  he  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Belcher, 
and  said  something  to  him,  and  they  both  laughed  together. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  nodding  to  the  witness. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "we  got 
along  so  well  with  the  question  of  identity  that,  with  the 
leave  of  the  defendant's  counsel,  I  propose,  in  order  to  save 
the  time  of  the  Court,  that  we  push  our  inquiries  directly  into 
the  validity  of  this  assignment.  This  is  the  essential  ques 
tion,  and  the  defendant  has  only  to  establish  the  validity  of 
the  instrument  to  bring  the  case  to  an  end  at  once.  This 
done,  the  suit  will  be  abandoned." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  rising.  "I  agree  to  the 
tcheme  with  the  single  provision  on  behalf  of  the  defendant, 
that  he  shall  not  be  debarred  from  his  pleading  of  a  denial  of 
profits,  in  any  event." 

"Agreed,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish.  "I  shall  call  Cornelius 
Phipps,  the  only  surviving  witness  of  the  assignment." 

But  Cornelius  Phipps  did  not  appear  when  he  was  called. 
A  second  call  produced  the  same  result.  He  was  not  in  the 
house.  He  was  sought  for  in  every  possible  retreat  about  the 
house,  but  could  not  be  found.  Cornelius  Phipps  had  mys 
teriously  disappeared. 

After  consulting  Mr.  Belcher,  Mr.  Cavendish  announced 
that  the  witness  who  had  been  called  was  essential  at  the  pre« 


388  SEVENOAKS. 

sent  stage  of  the  case.  He  thought  it  possible  that  in  the 
long  confinement  of  the  court-room,  Phipps  had  become  sud 
denly  ill,  and  gone  home.  He  hoped,  for  the  honor  of  the 
plaintiff  in  the  case,  that  nothing  worse  had  happened,  and 
suggested  that  the  Court  adjourn  until  the  following  day. 

And  the  Court  adjourned,  amid  tumultuous  whispering. 
Mr.  Belcher  was  apparently  oblivious  of  the  fact,  and  sat  and 
stared,  until  touched  upon  the  shoulder  by  his  counsel,  when 
he  rose  and  walked  out  upon  a  world  and  into  an  atmosphere 
that  had  never  before  seemed  so  strange  and  unreal. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

IN  WHICH  PHIPPS  IS  NOT    TO   BE    FOUND,   AND    THE  GENERAL    IS 
CALLED  UPON  TO   DO   HIS  OWN   LYING. 

AT  the  appointed  hour  on  the  following  morning,  the  Court 
resumed  its  session.  The  plaintiff  and  defendant  were  both 
in  their  places,  with  their  counsel,  and  the  witnesses  of  the 
previous  day  were  all  in  attendance.  Among  the  little  group 
of  witnesses  there  were  two  or  three  new  faces — a  professional- 
looking  gentleman  with  spectacles;  a  thin-faced,  carefully- 
dressed,  slender  man,  with  a  lordly  air,  and  the  bearing  of 
one  who  carried  the  world  upon  his  shoulders  and  did  not 
regard  it  as  much  of  a  burden ;  and,  last,  our  old  friend  Sam 
Yates. 

There  was  an  appearance  of  perplexity  and  gloom  on  the 
countenances  of  Mr.  Cavendish  and  his  client.  They  were 
in  serious  conversation,  and  it  was  evident  that  they  were  in 
difficulty.  Those  who  knew  the  occasion  of  the  abrupt  ad 
journment  of  the  Court  on  the  previous  day  looked  in  vain 
among  the  witnesses  for  the  face  of  Phipps.  He  was  not  in 
the  room,  and,  while  few  suspected  the  real  state  of  the  case, 
all  understood  how  essential  he  was  to  the  defendant,  in  hi? 
attempt  to  establish  the  genuineness  of  the  assignment. 

At  the  opening  of  the  Court,  Mr.  Cavendish  rose  to  speak. 
His  bold,  sharp  manner  had  disappeared.  The  instrument 
which  he  had  expected  to  use  had  slipped  hopelessly  out  of  his 
hand.  He  was  impotent.  "  May  it  please  the  Court,"  he 
said,  "the  defendant  in  this  case  finds  himself  in  a  very  em 
barrassing  position  this  morning.  It  was  known  yesterday 
that  Cornelius  Phipps,  the  only  surviving  witness  of  the  assign- 

389 


39o  SEVENOAKS. 

ment,  mysteriously  disappeared  at  the  moment  when  his  tes 
timony  was  wanted.  Why  and  how  he  disappeared,  I  cannot 
tell.  He  has  not  yet  been  found.  All  due  diligence  has 
been  exercised  to  discover  him,  but  without  success.  I  make 
no  charges  of  foul  play,  but  it  is  impossible  for  me,  knowing 
what  I  know  about  him — his  irreproachable  character,  his 
faithfulness  to  my  client,  and  his  perfect  memory  of  every 
event  connected  with  the  execution  of  the  paper  in  question — 
to  avoid  the  suspicion  that  he  is  by  some  means,  and  against 
his  win,,  detained  from  appearing  here  this  morning.  I  con 
fess,  sir,  that  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  It  is  hard  to  be 
lieve  thae  the  plaintiff  could  adopt  a  measure  so  desperate  as 
this  for  securing  his  ends,  and  I  will  not  criminate  him ;  but  I 
protest  that  the  condition  in  which  the  defendant  is  left  by 
this  defection,  or  this  forcible  detention — call  it  what  you 
will — demands  the  most  generous  consideration,  and  compels 
me  to  ask  u*e  Court  for  suggestions  as  to  the  best  course  of 
proceeding.  There  are  now  but  two  men  in  Court  who  saw 
the  paper  executed,  namely,  the  assignor  and  the  assignee. 
The  former  n«s  declared,  with  an  effrontery  which  I  have 
never  seen  equalled,  that  he  never  signed  the  document  which 
so  unmistakably  bears  his  signature,  and  that  the  names  of 
two  of  the  witnesses  are  forgeries.  I  do  not  expect  that,  in  a 
struggle  like  thia,  the  testimony  of  the  latter  will  be  accepted, 
and  I  shall  not  seoop  to  ask  it." 

Mr.  Cavendish  hesitated,  looked  appealingly  at  the  Judge, 
and  then  slowly  took  his  seat,  when  Mr.  Balfour,  without 
waiting  for  any  suggestions  from  the  Court,  rose  and  said : 

"  I  appreciate  the  embarrassment  of  the  defense,  and  am 
quite  willing  to  do  all  I  can  to  relieve  it.  His  insinuations 
of  foul  dealing  toward  his  witness  are  absurd,  of  course,  and, 
to  save  any  further  trouble,  I  am  willing  to  receive  as  a  wit 
ness,  in  place  of  Mr.  Phipps,  Mr.  Belcher  himself,  and  to 
pledge  myself  to  abide  by  what  he  establishes.  I  can  do  no 
more  than  this,  I  am  sure,  and  now  I  challenge  him  to  take 
Mae  stand." 


SEVENOAKS.  39i 

The  Judge  watched  the  defendant  and  his  counsel  in  their 
whispered  consultation  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said :  "It 
seems  to  the  Court  that  the  defense  can  reasonably  ask  for 
nothing  more  than  this." 

Mr.  Belcher  hesitated.  He  had  not  anticipated  this  turn 
of  the  case.  There  appeared  to  be  no  alternative,  however, 
and,  at  last,  he  rose  with  a  very  red  face,  and  walked  to  the 
witness-stand,  placing  himself  just  where  Mr.  Balfour  wanted 
him — in  a  position  to  be  cross-examined. 

It  is  useless  to  rehearse  here  the  story  which  had  been  pre 
pared  for  Phipps,  and  for  which  Phipps  had  been  prepared. 
Mr.  Belcher  swore  to  all  the  signatures  to  the  assignment,  as 
having  been  executed  in  his  presence,  on  the  day  correspond 
ing  with  the  date  of  the  paper.  He  was  permitted  to  enlarge 
upon  all  the  circumstances  of  the  occasion,  and  to  surround 
the  execution  of  the  assignment  with  the  most  ingenious  plau 
sibilities.  He  told  his  story  with  a  fine  show  of  candor,  and 
with  great  directness  and  clearness,  and  undoubtedly  made  a 
profound  impression  upon  the  Court  and  the  jury.  Then  Mr. 
Cavendish  passed  him  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Balfour. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Belcher,  you  have  told  us  a  very  straight  story, 
but  there  are  a  few  little  matters  which  I  would  like  to  have 
explained,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.  "  Why,  for  instance,  was  your 
assignment  placed  on  record  only  a  few  months  ago?" 

"Because  I  was  not  a  lawyer,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Belcher, 
delighted  that  the  first  answer  was  so  easy  and  so  plausible. 
"  I  was  not  aware  that  it  was  necessary,  until  so  informed  by 
Mr.  Cavendish." 

"  Was  Mr.  Benedict's  insanity  considered  hopeless  from  the 
first?" 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Belcher,  cheerfully;  "we  were  quite 
hopeful  that  we  should  bring  him  out  of  it." 

"He  had  lucid  intervals,  then." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Was  that  the  reason  why,  the  next  day  after  the  alleged 
assignment,  you  wrote  him  a  letter,  urging  him  to  make  the 


392  SEVENOAKS. 

assignment,  and  offering  him  a  royalty  for  the  use  of  his 
patents?" 

"  I  never  wrote  any  such  letter,  sir.  I  never  sent  him  any 
such  letter,  sir." 

%"  You  sent  him  to  the  asylum,  did  you?" 

"I  co-operated  with  others,  sir,  and  paid  the  bills/'  sai<? 
Mr.  Belcher,  with  emphasis. 

"  Did  you  ever  visit  the  asylum  when  he  was  there?" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  Did  you  apply  to  the  superintendent  for  liberty  to  secure 
his  signature  to  a  paper?" 

"I  do  not  remember  that  I  did.  It  would  have  been  an 
annatural  thing  for  me  to  do.  If  I  did,  it  was  a  paper  on 
some  subordinate  affair.  It  was  some  years  ago,  and  the  de 
tails  of  the  visit  did  not  impress  themselves  upon  my  memory." 

"How  did  you  obtain  the  letters  of  Nicholas  Johnscn  and 
James  Ramsey  ?  I  ask  this,  because  they  are  not  addressed 
£0  you." 

"  I  procured  them  of  Sam  Yates,  in  anticipation  of  the  ti  ial 
now  in  progress  here.  The  witnesses  were  dead,  and  I 
thought  they  would  help  me  in  establishing  the  genuineness 
of  their  signatures." 

"What  reason  had  you  to  anticipate  this  trial?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  accustomed  to  providing  for  all  con 
tingencies.  That  is  the  way  I  was  made,  sir.  It  seemed  to 
me  quite  probable  that  Benedict,  if  living,  would  forget  what 
he  had  done  before  his  insanity,  and  that,  if  he  were  dead, 
some  friend  of  his  boy  would  engage  in  the  suit  on  his  behalf. 
I  procured  the  autographs  after  I  saw  his  boy  in  your  hands* 
sir." 

"  So  you  had  not  seen  these  particular  signatures  at  the 
time  when  the  alleged  assignment  was  made." 

"No,  sir,  I  had  not  seen  them." 

"  And  you  simply  procured  them  to  use  as  a  defense  in  a 
suit  which  seemed  probable,  or  possible,  and  which  now, 
indeed,  is  in  progress  of  trial?  " 


SEVENOAKS.  393 

"  That  is  about  as  clear  a  statement  of  the  fact  as  I  can 
make,  sir ;  "  and  Mr.  Belcher  bowed  and  smiled. 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Belcher,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "that  it 
seems  very  strange  to  you  that  the  plaintiff  should  have  for 
gotten  his  signature.'* 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  On  the  contrary,  I  regard  it  as  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  I  should  suppose  that  a  man  who 
had  lost  his  mind  once  would  naturally  lose  his  memory  of 
many  things." 

"  That  certainly  seems  reasonable,  but  how  is  it  that  he 
does  not  recognize  it,  even  if  he  does  not  remember  the 
writing  of  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  a  man's  signature  changes  with  changing 
habits,  I  suppose,"  responded  the  witness. 

"  You  don't  suppose  that  any  genuine  signature  of  yours 
could  pass  under  your  eye  undetected,  do  you?"  inquired 
Mr.  Balfour. 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't.     I'll  be  frank  with  you,  sir." 

"  Well,  now,  I'm  going  to  test  you.  Perhaps  other  men, 
who  have  always  been  sane,  do  sometimes  forget  their  own 
signatures." 

Mr.  Balfour  withdrew  from  his  papers  a  note.  Mr.  Bel 
cher  saw  it  in  the  distance,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was 
the  note  he  had  written  to  the  lawyer  before  the  beginning  of 
the  suit.  The  latter  folded  over  the  signature  so  that  it  might 
be  shown  to  the  witness,  independent  of  the  body  of  the  let 
ter,  and  then  he  stepped  to  him  holding  it  in  his  hand,  and 
asked  him  to  declare  it  either  a  genuine  signature  or  a  forgery. 

"That's  my  sign  manual,  sir." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"  I  know  it,  sir." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  handing  the  letter  to  the 
clerk  to  be  marked.  "  You  are  right,  I  have  no  doubt,  and 
I  believe  this  is  all  I  want  of  you,  for  the  present." 

"  And  now,  may  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Balfour, 
"  I  have  some  testimony  to  present  in  rebuttal  of  that  of  the 

17* 


394 


SEVENOAKS. 


defendant.  I  propose,  practically,  to  finish  up  tins  case  with 
it,  and  to  show  that  the  story  to  which  you  have  listened  is 
false  in  every  particular. 

First,  I  wish  to  present  the  testimony  of  Dr.  Charles  Bar- 
hydt."  At  the  pronunciation  of  his  name,  the  man  in  specta 
cles  arose,  and  advanced  to  the  witness-stand. 

"  What  is  your  name?"    inquired  Mr.  Balfour. 

"  Charles  Barhydt." 

"  What  is  your  profession  ?" 

"I  am  a  physician." 

"  You  have  an  official  position,  I  believe." 

"Y<^s,  sir;  I  have  for  fifteen  years  been  the  superintendent 
of  the  State  Asylum  for  the  insane." 

"  Do  you  recognize  the  plaintiff  in  this  case,  as  a  former 
patient  in  the  asylum?" 

"I  do,  sir." 

"Was  he  ever  visited  by  the  defendant  while  in  your 
care?" 

"He  was,  sir." 

"Did  the  defendant  endeavor  to  procure  his  signature  to 
any  document  while  he  was  in  the  asylum?" 

"He  did,  sir." 

"  Did  he  apply  to  you  for  permission  to  get  this  signature, 
and  did  he  importunately  urge  you  to  give  him  this  permis 
sion?" 

"He  did,  sir." 

"  Did  you  read  this  document?" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  it  was?" 

"  Perfectly,  in  a  general  way.  It  was  an  assignment  of  a 
number  of  patent  rights  and  sundry  machines,  implements 
and  processes." 

Mr.  Balfour  handed  to  the  witness  the  assignment,  and  then 
said:  "Be  kind  enough  to  look  that  through,  and  tell  us 
whether  you  ever  saw  it  before." 

After  reading   the   document  through,  the  Doctor  said: 


SEVENOAK&.  391 

*  This  Is  the  identical  paper  which  Mr.  Belcner  showed  me 
or  a  very  close  copy  of  it.    Several  of  the  patents  named  here 
I  remember  distinctly,  for  I  read  the  paper  carefully,  with  a 
professional  purpose.     I  was  curious  to  know  what  had  been 
the  mental  habits  of  my  patient." 

"  But  you  did  not  give  the  defendant  liberty  to  procure  the 
signature  of  the  patentee?" 

"  I  did  not.  I  refused  to  do  so  on  the  ground  that  he  was 
not  of  sound  mind — that  he  was  not  a  responsible  per 
son." 

"When  was  this?*' 

"  I  have  no  record  of  the  date,  but  it  was  after  the  I2th  of 
May,  1860 — the  date  of  Mr.  Benedict's  admission  to  the 
asylum." 

"That  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.  Mr.  Cavendish  tried  to 
cross-examine,  but  without  any  result,  except  to  emphasize 
the  direct  testimony,  though  he  tried  persistently  to  make  the 
witness  remember  that,  while  Mr.  Belcher  might  have  shown 
him  the  assignment,  and  that  he  read  it  for  the  purpose  which 
he  had  stated,  it  was  another  paper  to  which  he  had  wished 
to  secure  the  patient's  signature. 

Samuel  Yates  was  next  called. 

"  You  are  a  member  of  our  profession,  I  believe,"  said  Mr. 
Balfour. 

"lam,  sir." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  the  service  of  the  defendant  in  this 
case?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  What  have  you  done  for  him?" 

"  I  worked  many  months  in  the  endeavor  to  ascertain 
whether  Paul  Benedict  was  living  or  dead." 

"  It  isn't  essential  that  we  should  go  into  that;  and  as  the 
defendant  has  testified  that  he  procured  the  autograph  letters 
which  are  in  the  possession  of  the  Court  from  you,  I  presume 
you  will  corroborate  his  testimony.'* 

"  He  did  procure  them  of  me,  sir." 


396  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Did  he  inform  you  of  the  purpose  to  which  he  wisheu  t« 
nut  them?" 

"  He  did,  sir.  He  said  that  he  wished  to  verify  some  signa 
tures." 

( '  Were  you  ever  employed  in  his  library  at  Sevenoaks,  by 
his  agent?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  wrote  there  for  several  weeks." 

"  May  it  please  the  Court,  I  have  a  letter  in  my  hand, 
the  genuineness  of  whose  signature  has  been  recognized  by 
the  defendant,  written  by  Robert  Belcher  to  Paul  Benedict, 
which,  as  it  has  a  direct  bearing  upon  the  case,  I  beg  the 
privilege  of  placing  in  evidence.  It  was  written  the  next  day 
after  the  date  of  the  alleged  assignment,  and  came  inclosed 
from  Benedict's  hands  to  mine." 

Mr.  Belcher  evidently  recalled  the  letter,  for  he  sat 
limp  in  his  chair,  like  a  man  stunned.  A  fierce  quarrel  then 
arose  between  the  counsel  concerning  the  admission  of  the 
letter.  The  Judge  examined  it,  and  said  that  he  could  see  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  be  admitted.  Then  Mr.  Balfour 

read  the  following  note : 

"SEVENOAKS,  May  5,  1860. 

"  Dear  Benedict: — I  am  glad  to  know  that  you  are  better. 
Since  you  distrust  my  pledge  that  I  will  give  you  a  reasonable 
share  of  the  profits  on  the  use  of  your  patents,  I  will  go  to 
your  house  this  afternoon,  with  witnesses,  and  have  an  inde 
pendent  paper  prepared,  to  be  signed  by  myself,  after  the 
assignment  is  executed,  which  will  give  you  a  definite  claim 
upon  me  for  royalty.  We  will  be  there  at  four  o'clock. 

' '  Yours,  ROBERT  BELCHER.  * ' 

"Mr.  Yates, "  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "have  you  ever  seen  rhis 
letter  before?" 

Yates  took  the  letter,  looked  it  over,  and  then  said :  "  I 
have,  sir.  I  found  the  letter  in  a  drawer  of  the  library-table, 
in  Mr.  Belcher's  house  at  Sevenoaks.  I  delivered  it  unopened 
to  the  man  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  leaving  him  to  decide 


SEVENOAKS.  397 

the  question  as  to  whether  it  belonged  to  him  or  the  writer. 
I  had  no  idea  of  its  contents  at  the  time,  but  became  ac 
quainted  with  them  afterwards,  for  I  was  present  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  letter." 

"That  is  all/'  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"So  you  stole  this  letter,  did  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Ca 
vendish. 

"  I  found  it  while  in  Mr.  Belcher's  service,  and  took  it  per 
sonally  to  the  man  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  as  he  apparently 
had  the  best  right  to  it.  I  am  quite  willing  to  return  it  to  the 
writer,  if  it  is  decided  that  it  belongs  to  him.  I  had  no  selfish 
end  to  serve  in  the  affair." 

Here  the  Judge  interposed.  "  The  Court,"  said  he,  "  finds 
this  letter  in  the  hands  of  the  plaintiff,  delivered  by  a  man 
who  at  the  time  was  in  the  employ  of  the  defendant,  and  had 
the  contents  of  the  room  in  his  keeping.  The  paper  has  a 
direct  bearing  on  the  case,  and  the  Court  will  not  go  back  of 
the  facts  stated." 

Mr.  Cavendish  sat  down  and  consulted  his  client.  Mr. 
Belcher  was  afraid  of  Yates.  The  witness  not  only  knew  too 
much  concerning  his  original  intentions,  but  he  was  a  lawyer 
who,  if  questioned  too  closely  and  saucily,  would  certainly 
manage  to  bring  in  facts  to  his  disadvantage.  Yates  had 
already  damaged  him  sadly,  and  Mr.  Belcher  felt  that  it  would 
not  do  to  provoke  a  re-direct  examination.  So,  after  a  whis 
pered  colloquy  with  his  counsel,  the  latter  told  the  witness 
that  he  was  done  with  him.  Then  Mr.  Belcher  and  his  counsel 
conversed  again  for  some  time,  when  Mr.  Balfour  rose  and 
said,  addressing  the  Court : 

"  The  defendant  and  his  counsel  evidently  need  time  for 
consultation,  and,  as  there  is  a  little  preliminary  work  to  be 
done  before  I  present  another  witness,  I  suggest  that  the 
Court  take  a  recess  of  an  hour.  In  the  meantime,  I  wish  to 
secure  photographic  copies  of  the  signatures  of  the  two  auto 
graph  letters,  and  of  the  four  signatures  of  the  assignment. 
I  ask  the  Court  to  place  these  documents  in  the  keeping  of 


398  SEVENOAKS. 

an  officer,  to  be  used  for  this  purpose,  in  an  adjoining  room, 
where  I  have  caused  a  photographic  apparatus  to  be  placed, 
and  where  a  skillful  operator  is  now  in  waiting.  I  ask  this 
privilege,  as  it  is  essential  to  a  perfect  demonstration  of  the 
character  of  the  document  on  which  the  decision  of  this  case 
must  turn." 

The  Judge  acceded  to  Mr.  Balfour's  request,  both  in  re 
gard  to  the  recess  and  the  use  of  the  paper,  and  the  assembly 
broke  up  into  little  knots  of  earnest  talkers,  most  of  whom 
manifested  no  desire  to  leave  the  building. 

Mr.  Cavendish  approached  Mr.  Balfour,  and  asked  for  a 
private  interview.  When  they  had  retired  to  a  lobby,  he 
said  :  ''You  are  not  to  take  any  advantage  of  this  conversa 
tion.  I  wish  to  talk  in  confidence." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"My  client,"  said  Cavendish,  "is  in  a  devilish  bad 
box.  His  principal  witness  has  run  away,  his  old  friends  all 
turn  against  him,  and  circumstantial  evidence  doesn't  befriend 
him.  I  have  advised  him  to  stop  this  suit  right  here,  and 
make  a  compromise.  No  one  wants  to  kill  the  General.  He's 
a  sharp  man,  but  he  is  good-natured,  and  a  useful  citizen. 
He  can  handle  these  patents  better  than  Benedict  can,  and 
make  money  enough  for  both  of  them.  What  could  Benedict 
do  if  he  had  the  patents  in  his  hands  ?  He's  a  simpleton. 
He's  a  nobody.  Any  man  capable  of  carrying  on  his  busi 
ness  would  cheat  him  out  of  his  eye-teeth." 

"  I  am  carrying  on  his  business,  myself,  just  at  this  time/' 
remarked  Mr.  Balfour,  seriously. 

"  That's  all  right,  of  course ;  but  you  know  that  you  and  1 
can  settle  this  business  better  for  these  men  than  they  can 
settle  it  for  themselves." 

"I'll  be  frank  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.  "I  am  not 
one  who  regards  Robert  Belcher  as  a  good-natured  man 
and  a  useful  citizen,  and  I,  for  one — to  use  your  own  phrase- 
want  to  kill  him.  He  has  preyed  upon  the  public  for  ten 
years,  and  I  owe  a  duty  not  only  to  my  client  but  to  society 


399 

I  understand  how  good  a  bargain  I  could  make  with  him  at 
this  point,  but  I  will  make  no  bargain  with  him.  He  is  an 
unmitigated  scoundrel,  and  he  will  only  go  out  of  this  Court 
to  be  arrested  for  crime  ;  and  I  do  not  expect  to  drop  him 
until  I  drop  him  into  a  Penitentiary,  where  he  can  reflect  upon 
his  forgeries  at  leisure." 

"  Then  you  refuse  any  sort  of  a  compromise." 

"  My  dear  sir/'  said  Mr.  Balfour,  warmly,  "  do  you  sup 
pose  I  can  give  a  man  a  right  to  talk  of  terms  who  is  in  my 
hands  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  can  compromise  with  crime  ?  You 
know  I  can't." 

"  Very  well — let  it  go.  I  suppose  I  must  go  through  with 
it.  You  understand  that  this  conversation  is  confidential." 

"I  do:  and  you?" 

"Oh,  certainly  1" 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

|M  V/HICH  A  HEAVENLY  WITNESS  APPEARS  WHO   CANNOT  BE  CROSS- 
EXAMINED,  AND    BEFORE  WHICH   THE   DEFENSE  UTTERLY 
BREAKS    DOWN. 

AT  the  re-assembling  of  the  Court,  a  large  crowd  had  come 
in.  Those  who  had  heard  the  request  of  Mr.  Balfour  had 
reported  what  was  going  on,  and,  as  the  promised  testimony 
seemed  to  involve  some  curious  features,  the  court-room  pre 
sented  the  most  crowded  appearance  that  it  had  worn  since 
the  beginning  of  the  trial. 

Mr.  Belcher  had  grown  old  during  the  hour.  His  con 
sciousness  of  guilt,  his  fear  of  exposure,  the  threatened  loss 
of  his  fortune,  and  the  apprehension  of  a  retribution  of  dis 
grace  were  sapping  his  vital  forces,  minute  by  minute.  All 
the  instruments  that  he  had  tried  to  use  for  his  own  base 
purposes  were  turned  against  himself.  The  great  world  that 
had  glittered  around  the  successful  man  was  growing  dark, 
and,  what  was  worse,  there  were  none  to  pity  him.  He  had 
lived  for  himself;  and  now,  in  his  hour  of  trouble,  no  one 
was  true  to  him,  no  one  loved  him — not  even  his  wife  and 
children  ! 

He  gave  a  helpless,  hopeless  sigh,  as  Mr.  Balfour  called  to 
the  witness  stand  Prof.  Albert  Timms. 

Prof.  Timms  was  the  man  already  described  among  the 
three  new  witnesses,  as  the  one  who  seemed  to  be  conscious 
of  bearing  the  world  upon  his  shoulders,  and  to  find  it  so  in 
considerable  a  burden.  He  advanced  to  the  stand  with  the 
air  of  one  who  had  no  stake  in  the  contest.  His  impartiality 
came  from  indifference.  He  had  an  opportunity  to  show  his 
knowledge  and  his  skill,  and  he  delighted  in  it. 
400 


SEVEN  OAKS.  401 

•'What  is  your  name,  witness?"  inquired  Mr.  Balfour. 

"Albert  Timms,  at  your  service." 

"What  is  your  calling,  sir?" 

"I  have  at  present  the  charge  of  a  department  in  the 
School  of  Mines.  My  specialties  are  chemistry  and  micro 
scopy." 

"You  are  specially  acquainted  with  these  branches  of 
natural  science,  then." 

"lam,  sir." 

"  Have  you  been  regarded  as  an  expert  in  the  detection  of 
forgery?" 

"I  have  been  called  as  such  in  many  cases  of  the  kind,  sir." 

"  Then  you  have  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  such 
things,  and  in  the  various  tests  by  which  such  matters  are  de 
termined?" 

"  I  have,  sir." 

"  Have  you  examined  the  assignment  and  the  autograph 
letters  which  have  been  in  your  hands  during  the  recess  of 
the  Court?" 

"I  have,  sir." 

"  Do  you  know  either  the  plaintiff  or  the  defendant  in  this 
case?" 

"I  do  not,  sir.     I  never  saw  either  of  them  until  to-day." 

"  Has  any  one  told  you  about  the  nature  of  these  papers, 
so  as  to  prejudice  your  mind  in  regard  to  any  of  them  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  have  not  exchanged  a  word  with  any  one  in 
regard  to  them." 

"  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  two  letters?' 

"  That  they  are  veritable  autographs." 

"  How  do  you  judge  this  ?" 

"  From  the  harmony  of  the  signatures  with  the  text  of  the 
body  of  the  letters,  by  the  free  and  natural  shaping  and  inter 
flowing  of  the  lines,  and  by  a  general  impression  of  truthful 
ness  which  it  is  very  difficult  to  communicate  in  words." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  signatures  to  the  assignment?" 

"I  think  they  are  all  counterfeits,  but  one." 


402  SEVENOAKS. 

"  Prof.  Timms,  this  is  a  serious  matter.  You  should  ba 
very  sure  of  the  truth  of  a  statement  like  this.  You  say  you 
think  they  are  counterfeits :  why  ?" 

"  If  the  papers  can  be  handed  to  me,"  said  the  witness, 
"  I  will  show  what  leads  me  to  think  so." 

The  papers  were  handed  to  him,  and,  placing  the  letters  on 
the  bar  on  which  he  had  been  leaning,  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  little  rule,  and  laid  it  lengthwise  along  the  signature 
of  Nicholas  Johnson.  Having  recorded  the  measurement,  he 
next  took  the  corresponding  name  on  the  assignment. 

"  I  find  the  name  of  Nicholas  Johnson  of  exactly  the  same 
length  on  the  assignment  that  it  occupies  on  the  letter," 
said  he. 

"  Is  that  a  suspicious  circumstance?" 

"  It  is,  and,  moreover,"  (going  on  with  his  measurements) 
"  there  is  not  the  slightest  variation  between  the  two  signa 
tures  in  the  length  of  a  letter.  Indeed,  to  the  naked  eye, 
one  signature  is  the  counterpart  of  the  other,  in  every  char 
acteristic." 

"  How  do  you  determine,  then,  that  it  is  anything  but  a 
genuine  signature  ?" 

"  The  imitation  is  too  nearly  perfect." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?" 

"  Well ;  no  man  writes  his  signature  twice  alike.  There 
is  not  one  chance  in  a  million  that  he  will  do  so,  without 
definitely  attempting  to  do  so,  and  then  he  will  be  obliged  to 
use  certain  appliances  to  guide  him." 

"  Now  will  you  apply  the  same  test  to  the  other  signature  ?'* 

Prof.  Timms  went  carefully  to  work  again  with  his  measure. 
He  examined  the  form  of  every  letter  in  detail,  and  com 
pared  it  with  its  twin,  and  declared,  at  the  close  of  his  ex 
amination,  that  he  found  the  second  name  as  close  a  counter 
feit  as  the  first. 

"  Both  names  on  the  assignment,  then,  are  exact  fac-similes 
of  the  names  on  the  autograph  letters,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

"They  are,  indeed,   sir — quite  wonderful  reproductions." 


SEVENOAKS.  ^03 

"  The  work  must  have  been  done,  then,  by  a  very  skillful 
man,"  said  Mr.  Balfour. 

The  professor  shook  his  head  pityingly.  "  Oh,  no,  sir,'1 
he  said.  "  None  but  bunglers  ever  undertake  a  job  like  this. 
Here,  sir,  are  two  forged  signatures.  If  one  genuine  signature, 
standing  alone,  has  one  chance  in  a  million  of  being  exactly 
like  any  previous  signature  of  the  writer,  two  standing  to 
gether  have  not  one  chance  in  ten  millions  of  being  exact 
fac-similes  of  two  others  brought  together  by  chance. 

"  How  were  these  fac-similes  produced?"  inquired  Mr. 
Balfour. 

"  They  could  only  have  been  produced  by  tracing  first 
with  a  pencil,  directly  over  the  signature  to  be  counterfeited." 

"  Well,  this  seems  very  reasonable,  but  have  you  any  fur 
ther  tests  ?  " 

"Under  this  magnifying  glass,"  said  the  professor,  push 
ing  along  his  examination  at  the  same  time,  "  I  see  a  marked 
difference  between  the  signatures  on  the  two  papers,  which  is 
not  apparent  to  the  naked  eye.  The  letters  of  the  genuine 
autograph  have  smooth,  unhesitating  lines;  those  of  the 
counterfeits  present  certain  minute  irregularities  that  are  in 
separable  from  pains-taking  and  slow  execution.  Unless  the 
Court  and  the  jury  are  accustomed  to  the  use  of  a  glass,  and 
to  examinations  of  this  particular  character,  they  will  hardly 
be  able  to  see  just  what  I  describe,  but  I  have  an  experiment 
which  will  convince  them  that  I  am  right." 

"Can  you   perform   this   experiment   here,    and   now?" 

"  I  can,  sir,  provided  the  Court  will  permit  me  to  establish 
the  necessary  conditions.  I  must  darken  the  room,  and  as  I 
notice  that  the  windows  are  all  furnished  with  shutters,  the 
matter  may  be  very  quickly  and  easily  accomplished. ' ' 

"  Will  you  describe  the  nature  of  your  experiment  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,  during  the  recess  of  the  Court,  I  have  had 
photographed  upon  glass  all  the  signatures.  These,  with  the 
aid  of  a  solar  microscope,  I  can  project  upon  the  wall  behind 
the  jury,  immensely  enlarged,  so  that  the  peculiarities  I  have 


404  SEVENOAKS. 

described  may  be  detected  by  every  eye  in  the  house,  with 
others,  probably,  if  the  sun  remains  bright  and  strong,  that  I 
have  not  alluded  to." 

"  The  experiment  will  be  permitted,"  said  the  judge,  "and 
the  officers  and  the  janitor  will  give  the  Professor  all  the  as 
sistance  he  needs." 

Gradually,  as  the  shutters  were  closed,  the  room  grew  dark, 
and  the  faces  of  Judge,  Jury  and  the  anxious-looking  parties 
within  the  bar  grew  weird  and  wan  among  the  shadows.  A 
strange  silence  and  awe  descended  upon  the  crowd.  The 
great  sun  in  heaven  was  summoned  as  a  witness,  and  the  sun 
would  not  lie.  A  voice  was  to  speak  to  them  from  a  hundred 
millions  of  miles  away — a  hundred  millions  of  miles  near  the 
realm  toward  which  men  looked  when  they  dreamed  of  the 
Great  White  Throne. 

They  felt  as  a  man  might  feel,  were  he  conscious,  in  the 
darkness  of  the  tomb,  when  waiting  for  the  trump  of  the 
resurrection  and  the  breaking  of  the  everlasting  day.  Men 
heard  their  own  hearts  beat,  like  the  tramp  of  trooping  hosts; 
yet  there  was  one  man  who  was  glad  of  the  darkness.  To 
him  the  judgment  day  had  come ;  and  the  closing  shutters 
were  the  rocks  that  covered  him.  He  could  see  and  not  be 
seen.  He  could  behold  his  own  shame  and  not  be  conscious 
that  five  hundred  eyes  were  upon  him. 

All  attention  was  turned  to  the  single  pair  of  shutters  not 
entirely  closed.  Outside  of  these,  the  professor  had  es 
tablished  his  heliostat,  and  then  gradually,  by  the  aid  of 
drapery,  he  narrowed  down  the  entrance  of  light  to  a  little 
aperture  where  a  single  silver  bar  entered  and  pierced  the 
darkness  like  a  spear.  Then  this  was  closed  by  the  insertion 
of  his  microscope,  and,  leaving  his  apparatus  in  the  hands  of 
an  assistant,  he  felt  his  way  back  to  his  old  position. 

"  May  it  please  the  Court,  I  am  ready  for  the  experiment," 
he  said. 

"  The  witness  will  proceed,"  said  the  judge. 

"  There  will  soon  appear  upon  the  wall,  above  the  heads  of 


SEVENOAKS.  4<x 

the  Jury,"  said  Prof.  Timms,  "  the  genuine  signature  of 
Nicholas  Johnson,  as  it  has  been  photographed  from  the  auto 
graph  letter.  I  wish  the  Judge  and  Jury  to  notice  two  things 
in  this  signature — the  cleanly-cut  edges  of  the  letters,  and  the 
two  lines  of  indentation  produced  by  the  two  prongs  of  the 
pen,  in  its  down-stroke.  They  will  also  notice  that,  in  the 
up-stroke  of  the  pen,  there  is  no  evidence  of  indentation 
whatever.  At  the  point  where  the  up-stroke  begins,  and  the 
down-stroke  ends,  the  lines  of  indentation  will  come  together 
and  cease." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  word,  the  name  swept  through  the 
darkness  over  an  unseen  track,  and  appeared  upon  the  wall, 
within  a  halo  of  amber  light.  All  eyes  saw  it,  and  all  found 
the  characteristics  that  had  been  predicted.  The  professor 
said  not  a  word.  There  was  not  a  whisper  in  the  room. 
When  a  long  minute  had  passed,  the  light  was  shut  off. 

"  Now,"  said  the  professor,  "  I  will  show  you  in  the  same 
place,  the  name  of  Nicholas  Johnson,  as  it  has  been  photo 
graphed  from  the  signatures  to  the  assignment.  What  I  wish 
you  to  notice  particularly  in  this  signature  is,  first,  the  rough 
and  irregular  edges  of  the  lines  which  constitute  the  letters. 
They  will  be  so  much  magnified  as  to  present  very  much  the 
appearance  of  a  Virginia  fence.  Second,  another  peculiarity 
which  ought  to  be  shown  in  the  experiment — one  which  has  a 
decided  bearing  upon  the  character  of  the  signature.  If  the 
light  continues  strong,  you  will  be  able  to  detect  it.  The 
lines  of  indentation  made  by  the  two  prongs  of  the  pen  will 
be  evident,  as  in  the  real  signature.  I  shall  be  disappointed 
if  there  do  not  also  appear  a  third  line,  formed  by  the  pencil 
which  originally  traced  the  letters,  and  this  line  will  not  only 
accompany,  in  an  irregular  way,  crossing  from  side  to  side, 
the  two  indentations  of  the  down-strokes  of  the  pen,  but  it 
will  accompany  irregularly  the  hair-lines.  I  speak  of  this 
latter  peculiarity  with  some  doubt,  as  the  instrument  I  use  is 
not  the  best  which  science  now  has  at  its  command  for  this 
purpose,  though  competent  under  perfect  conditions." 


4o6  SEVEN  OAKS. 

He  paused,  and  then  the  forged  signatures  appeared  upon 
the  wall.  There  was  a  universal  burst  of  admiration,  and 
then  all  grew  still — as  if  those  who  had  given  way  to  their 
feelings  were  suddenly  stricken  with  the  consciousness  that 
they  were  witnessing  a  drama  in  which  divine  forces  were 
playing  a  part.  There  were  the  ragged,  jagged  edges  of  the 
letters  j  there  was  the  supplementary  line,  traceable  in  every 
part  of  them.  There  was  man's  lie — revealed,  defined,  con 
victed  by  God's  truth ! 

The  letters  lingered,  and  the  room  seemed  almost  sensibly 
to  sink  in  the  awful  silence.  Then  the  stillness  was  broken 
by  a  deep  voice.  What  lips  it  came  from,  no  one  knew,  for 
all  the  borders  of  the  room  were  as  dark  as  night.  It  seemed, 
as  it  echoed  from  side  to  side,  to  come  from  every  part  of  the 
house:  " Mene,  mene,  tekel  upharsin!"  Such  was  the  effect 
of  these  words  upon  the  eager  and  excited,  yet  thoroughly 
solemnized  crowd,  that  when  the  shutters  were  thrown  open, 
they  would  hardly  have  been  surprised  to  see  the  bar  covered 
with  golden  goblets  and  bowls  of  wassail,  surrounded  by 
lordly  ^evellers  and  half-nude  women,  with  the  stricken  Bel- 
shazzar  at  the  head  of  the  feast.  Certainly  Belshazzar,  on  his 
night  of  doom,  could  hardly  have  presented  a  more  pitiful 
front  than  Robert  Belcher,  as  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  him. 
His  face  was  haggard,  his  chin  had  dropped  upon  his  breast, 
and  he  reclined  in  his  chair  like  one  on  whom  the  plague  had 
laid  its  withering  hand. 

There  stood  Prof.  Timms  in  his  triumph.  His  experiment 
had  proved  to  be  a  brilliant  success,  and  that  was  all  he  cared 
for. 

"You  have  not  shown  us  the  other  signatures,"  said  Mr. 
Balfour. 

"False  in  one  thing,  false  in  all,"  responded  the  professor, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  I  can  show  you  the  others;  they 
would  be  like  this;  you  would  throw  away  your  time." 

Mr.  Cavendish  did  not  look  at  the  witness,  but  pretended 
to  write. 


S£  VENOAKS.  407 

"  Does  me  counsel  for  the  defense  wish  to  question  the 
ritness?"  inquired  Mr.  Balfour,  turning  to  him. 

"  No,"  very  sharply. 

"You  can  step  down,"  said  Mr.  Balfour.  As  the  witness 
passed  him,  he  quietly  grasped  his  hand  and  thanked  him.  A 
poorly  suppressed  cheer  ran  around  the  court-room  as  he  re« 
sumed  his  seat.  Jim  Fenton,  who  had  never  before  witnessed 
an  experiment  like  that  which,  in  the  professor's  hands,  had 
been  so  successful,  was  anxious  to  make  some  personal  demon 
stration  of  his  admiration.  Restrained  from  this  by  his  sur 
roundings,  he  leaned  over  and  whispered:  "Perfessor, 
you've  did  a  big  thing,  but  it's  the  fust  time  I  ever  knowed 
any  good  to  come  from  peekin'  through  a  key-hole." 

"  Thank  you,"  and  the  professor  nodded  sidewise,  evi 
dently  desirous  of  shutting  Jim  off,  but  the  latter  wanted  fur 
ther  conversation. 

"Was  it  you  that  said  it  was  mean  to  tickle  yer  parson?" 
inquired  Jim. 

"What?"  said  the  astonished  professor,  looking  round  in 
spite  of  himself. 

"  Didn't  you  say  it  was  mean  to  tickle  yer  parson  ?  It 
sounded  more  like  a  furriner,"  said  Jim. 

When  the  professor  realized  the  meaning  that  had  been  at 
tached  by  Jim  to  the  "  original  Hebrew,"  he  was  taken  with 
what  seemed  to  be  a  nasal  hemorrhage  that  called  for  his 
immediate  retirement  from  the  court-room. 

What  was  to  be  done  next?  All  eyes  were  turned  upon 
the  counsel  who  were  ii>  earnest  conversation.  Too  evidently 
the  defense  had  broken  down  utterly.  Mr.  Cavendish  was 
angry,  and  Mr.  Belcher  sat  beside  him  like  a  man  who  ex 
pected  every  moment  to.  be  smitten  in  the  face,  and  who 
would  not  be  able  to  resent  the  blow. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish,  "  it  is 
impossible,  of  course,  for  counsel  to  know  what  impression 
this  testimony  has  made  upon  the  Court  and  the  jury.  Dr. 
Barhydt,  after  a  lapse  of  years,  and  dealings  with  thousands 


4o8  SEVENOAKS. 

of  patients,  comes  here  and  testifies  to  an  occurrence  which 
my  client's  testimony  makes  impossible ;  a  sneak  discovers  a 
letter  which  may  have  been  written  on  the  third  or  the  fifth 
of  May,  1860 — it  is  very  easy  to  make  a  mistake  in  the  figure, 
and  this  stolen  letter,  never  legitimately  delivered, — possibly 
jiever  intended  to  be  delivered  under  any  circumstances — is 
produced  here  in  evidence ;  and,  to  crown  all,  we  have  had 
the  spectacular  drama  in  a  single  act  by  a  man  who  has  ap 
pealed  to  the  imaginations  of  us  all,  and  who,  by  his  skill  in 
the  management  of  an  experiment  with  which  none  of  us  are 
familiar,  has  found  it  easy  to  make  a  falsehood  appear  like  the 
truth.  The  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  has  been  pleased  to  con 
sider  the  establishment  or  the  breaking  down  of  the  assign 
ment  as  the  practical  question  at  issue.  I  cannot  so  regard 
it.  The  question  is,  whether  my  client  is  to  be  deprived  of 
the  fruits  of  long  years  of  enterprise,  economy  and  industry ; 
for  it  is  to  be  remembered  that,  by  the  plaintiffs  own  show 
ing,  the  defendant  was  a  rich  man  when  he  first  knew  him. 
I  deny  the  profits  from  the  use  of  the  plaintiffs  patented  in 
ventions,  and  call  upon  him  to  prove  them.  I  not  only  call 
upon  him  to  prove  them,  but  I  defy  him  to  prove  them.  It 
will  take  something  more  than  superannuated  doctors,  stolen 
letters  and  the  performances  of  a  mountebank  to  do  this." 

This  speech,  delivered  with  a  sort  of  frenzied  bravado,  had  a 
wonderful  effect  upon  Mr.  Belcher.  He  straightened  in  his 
chair,  and  assumed  his  old  air  of  self-assurance.  He  could 
sympathize  in  any  game  of  "  bluff,"  and  when  it  came  down 
to  a  square  fight  for  money  his  old  self  came  back  to  him. 
During  the  little  speech  of  Mr.  Cavendish,  Mr.  Balfour  was 
writing,  and  when  the  former  sat  down,  the  latter  rose,  and, 
addressing  the  Court,  said :  "I  hold  in  my  hand  a  written 
notice,  calling  upon  the  defendant's  counsel  to  produce  in 
Court  a  little  book  in  the  possession  of  his  client  entitled 
*  Records  of  profits  and  investments  of  profits  from  manu 
factures  under  the  Benedict  patents/  and  I  hereby  serve  it 
upon  him." 


SEVEN  OAKS.  409 

Thus  saying,  he  handed  the  letter  to  Mr.  Cavendish,  who 
received  and  read  it. 

Mr.  Cavendish  consulted  his  client,  and  then  rose  and 
said  :  "  May  it  please  the  Court,  there  is  no  such  book  in 
existence. ' ' 

"I  happen  to  know,"  rejoined  Mr.  Balfour,  "that  there  is 
such  a  book  in  existence,  unless  it  has  recently  been  de 
stroyed.  This  I  stand  ready  to  prove  by  the  testimony  of 
Helen  Dillingham,  the  sister  of  the  plaintiff." 

"The  witness  can  be  called,"  said  the  judge. 

Mrs.  Dillingham  looked  paler  than  on  the  day  before, 
as  she  voluntarily  lifted  her  veil,  and  advanced  to  the  stand. 
She  had  dreaded  the  revelation  of  her  own  treachery  toward 
the  treacherous  proprietor,  but  she  had  sat  and  heard  him 
perjure  himself,  until  her  own  act,  which  had  been  performed 
on  behalf  of  justice,  became  one  of  which  she  could  hardly 
be  ashamed. 

"Mrs.  Dillingham,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  "  have  you  been  on 
friendly  terms  with  the  defendant  in  this  case?" 

"I  have,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  He  has  been  a  frequent 
visitor  at  my  house,  and  I  have  visited  his  family  at  his  own." 

"  Was  he  aware  that  the  plaintiff  was  your  brother?" 

"He  was  not." 

"Has  he,  from  the  first,  made  a  confidant  of  you?" 

"In  some  things — yes." 

"  Do  you  know  Harry  Benedict — the  plaintiff's  son  ?" 

"I  do,  sir." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him?" 

"  I  made  his  acquaintance  soon  after  he  came  to  reside  wittl 
you,  sir,  in  the  city." 

"  Did  you  seek  his  acquaintance  ?  " 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  From  what  motive  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Belcher  wished  me  to  do  it,  in  order  to  ascertain  of 
him  whether  his  father  were  living  or  dead." 

"  You  did  not  then  know  th^t  the  lad  was  your  nephew  ?  " 
18 


4io  SEVENOAKS. 

"  I  did  not,  sir."1 

"  Have  you  ever  told  Mr.  Belcher  that  your  brother  was 
alive?" 

"  I  told  him  that  Paul  Benedict  was  alive,  at  the  last  inter 
view  but  one  that  I  ever  had  with  him." 

"  Did  he  give  you  at  this  interview  any  reason  for  his  great 
anxiety  to  ascertain  the  facts  as  to  Mr.  Benedict's  life  oi 
death?" 

"He  did,  sir." 

"  Was  there  any  special  occasion  for  the  visit  you  allude 
to?" 

"  I  think  there  was,  sir.  He  had  just  lost  heavily  in  Inter 
national  Mail,  and  evidently  came  in  to  talk  about  business. 
At  any  rate,  he  did  talk  about  it,  as  he  had  never  done 
before." 

"  Can  you  give  us  the  drift  or  substance  of  his  conversation 
and  statements?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  he  assured  me  that  he  had  not  been  shaken  by 
his  losses,  said  that  he  kept  his  manufacturing  business  en 
tirely  separate  from  his  speculations,  gave  me  a  history  of  the 
manner  in  which  my  brother's  inventions  had  come  into  his 
hands,  and,  finally,  showed  me  a  little  account  book,  in  which 
he  had  recorded  his  profits  from  manufactures  under  what  he 
called  the  Benedict  Patents." 

"  Did  you  read  this  book,  Mrs.  Dillingham  ?  " 

"I  did,  sir." 

"Every  word?" 

"  Every  word." 

"  Did  you  hear  me  serve  a  notice  on  the  defendant's  coun^ 
Bel  to  produce  this  book  in  Court  ?  " 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  In  that  notice  did  I  give  the  title  of  the  book  correctly?'* 

"You  did,  sir." 

"  Was  this  book  left  in  your  hands  for  a  considerable  length 
of  time  ?  " 

"  Tf  waa.  sir.  for  several  hours." 


SEVENOAKS.  411 

"Did  you  copy  it?  " 

"  I  did,  sir,  every  word  of  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  made  a  correct  copy  ?  " 

"  I  verified  it,  sir,  item  by  item,  again  and  again." 

"  Can  you  give  me  any  proof  corroborative  of  your  state 
ment  that  this  book  has  been  in  your  hands  ?  " 

"lean,  sir." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  letter  from  Mr.  Belcher,  asking  me  to  deliver  the  book 
to  his  man  Phipps." 

"Is  that  the  letter?"  inquired  Mr.  Balfour,  passing  the 
note  into  her  hands. 

"It  is,  sir." 

''  May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Mr.  Balfour,  turning  to 
the  Judge,  "the  copy  of  this  account-book  is  in  my  possession, 
and  if  the  defendant  persists  in  refusing  to  produce  the 
original,  I  shall  ask  the  privilege  of  placing  it  in  evidence." 

During  the  examination  of  this  witness,  the  defendant  and 
his  counsel  sat  like  men  overwhelmed.  Mr.  Cavendish  was: 
angry  with  his  client,  who  did  not  even  hear  the  curses  which 
were  whispered  in  his  ear.  The  latter  had  lost  not  only  his 
money,  but  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  The  perspiration 
stood  in  glistening  beads  upon  his  forehead.  Once  he  put  his 
head  down  upon  the  table  before  him,  while  his  frame  was 
convulsed  with  an  uncontrollable  passion.  He  held  it  there 
until  Mr.  Cavendish  touched  him,  when  he  rose  and  staggered 
to  a  pitcher  of  iced  water  upon  the  bar,  and  drank  a  long 
draught.  The  exhibition  of  his  pain  was  too  terrible  to  ex 
cite  in  the  beholders  any  emotion  lighter  than  pity. 

The  Judge  looked  at  Mr.  Cavendish  who  was  talking 
angrily  with  his  client.  After  waiting  for  a  minute  or  two, 
he  said  :  "  Unless  the  original  of  this  book  be  produced,  the 
Court  will  be  obliged  to  admit  the  copy.  It  was  made  by  one 
who  had  it  in  custody  from  the  owner's  hands." 

"I  was  not  aware,"  said  Mr.  Cavendish  fiercely,  "  that  a 
crushing  conspiracy  like  this  against  my  client  could  be  car- 


4I2  SEVENOAKS. 

ried  on  in  any  court  of  the  United  States,  under   judicial 
sanction." 

"  The  counsel  must  permit  the  Court,"  said  the  Judge 
calmly,  "  to  remind  him  that  it  is  so  far  generous  toward  his 
disappointment  and  discourtesy  as  to  refrain  from  punishing 
him  for  contempt,  and  to  warn  him  against  any  repetition  of 
his  offense." 

Mr.  Cavendish  sneered  in  the  face  of  the  Judge,  but  held 
his  tongue,  while  Mr.  Balfour  presented  and  read  the  contents 
of  the  document.  All  of  Mr.  Belcher's  property  at  Seven- 
oaks,  his  rifle  manufactory,  the  goods  in  Talbot's  hands,  and 
sundry  stocks  and  bonds  came  into  the  enumeration,  with  the 
enormous  foreign  deposit,  which  constituted  the  General's 
"  anchor  to  windward."  It  was  a  handsome  showing.  Judge, 
jury  and  spectators  were  startled  by  it,  and  were  helped  to 
understand,  better  than  they  had  previously  done,  the  magni 
tude  of  the  stake  for  which  the  defendant  had  played  his  des 
perate  game,  and  the  stupendous  power  of  the  temptation 
before  which  he  had  been  led  to  sacrifice  both  his  honor  and 
his  safety. 

Mr.  Cavendish  went  over  to  Mr.  Balfour,  and  they  held  a 
long  conversation,  sotto  voce.  Then  Mrs.  Dillingham  was 
informed  that  she  could  step  down,  as  she  would  not  be 
wanted  for  cross-examination.  Mr.  Belcher  had  so  persistently 
lied  to  his  counsel,  and  his  case  had  become  so  utterly  hope 
less,  that  even  Cavendish  practically  gave  it  up. 

Mr.  Balfour  then  addressed  the  Court,  and  said  that  it  had 
been  agreed  between  himself  and  Mr.  Cavendish,  in  order  to 
save  the  time  of  the  Court,  that  the  case  should  be  given  to 
the  jury  by  the  Judge,  without  presentation  or  argument  of 
counsel. 

The  Judge  occupied  a  few  minutes  in  recounting  the  evi 
dence,  and  presenting  the  issue,  and  without  leaving  their 
seats  the  jury  rendered  a  verdict  for  the  whole  amount  of 
damages  claimed. 

bold,  vain-glorious  proprietor  was  a  ruined  man.    Th* 


SEVENOAKS.  4*3 

consciousness  of  power  had  vanished.  The  law  had  grappled 
with  him,  shaken  him  once,  and  dropped  him.  He  had  had 
a  hint  from  his  counsel  of  Mr.  Balfour's  intentions,  and  knew 
that  the  same  antagonist  would  wait  but  a  moment  to  pounce 
upon  him  again,  and  shake  the  life  out  of  him.  It  was  curious 
to  see  how,  not  only  in  his  own  consciousness,  but  in  his  ap 
pearance,  he  degenerated  into  a  very  vulgar  sort  of  scoundrel. 
In  leaving  the  Court-room,  he  skulked  by  the  happy  group 
that  surrounded  the  inventor,  not  even  daring  to  lift  his  eyes 
to  Mrs.  Dillingham.  When  he  was  rich  and  powerful,  with 
such  a  place  in  society  as  riches  and  power  commanded,  he 
felt  himself  to  be  the  equal  of  any  woman ;  but  he  had  been 
degraded  and  despoiled  in  the  presence  of  his  idol,  and  knew 
that  he  was  measurelessly  and  hopelessly  removed  from  her. 
He  was  glad  to  get  away  from  the  witnesses  of  his  disgrace, 
and  the  moment  he  passed  the  door,  he  ran  rapidly  down  the 
stairs,  and  emerged  upon  the  street. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

WHEREIN  MR.  BELCHER,  HAVING  EXHIBITED  HIS  DIRTY  RECORD^ 
SHOWS  A  CLEAN  PAIR  OF  HEELS, 

THE  first  face  that  Mr.  Belcher  met  upon  leaving  the  Court- 
House  was  that  of  Mr.  Talbot. 

"Get  into  my  coupe,"  said  Talbot.  "I  will  take  you 
home." 

Mr.  Belcher  got  into  the  coup£  quickly,  as  if  he  were 
hiding  from  some  pursuing  danger.  "Home!"  said  he, 
huskily,  and  in  a  whimpering  voice.  "  Home  !  Good  God  I 
I  wish  I  knew  where  it  was." 

"  What's  the  matter,  General?     How  has  the  case  gone?" 

"  Gone  ?     Haven't  you  been  in  the  house?" 

"  No ;  how  has  it  gone  ?" 

"Gone  to  hell,"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  leaning  over  heavily 
upon  Talbot,  and  whispering  it  in  his  ear. 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,"  said  Talbot,  pushing  him  off. 

"Toll,"  said  the  suffering  man,  "haven't  I  always  used 
you  well  ?  You  are  not  going  to  turn  against  the  General  ? 
You've  made  a  good  thing  out  of  him,  Toll." 

"What's  happened,  General?     Tell  me." 

"  Toll,  you'll  be  shut  up  to-morrow.  Play  your  cards 
right.  Make  friends  with  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness." 

Talbot  sat  and  thought  very  fast.  He  saw  that  there  was 
serious  trouble,  and  questioned  whether  he  were  not  compro 
mising  himself.  Still,  the  fact  that  the  General  had  enriched 
him,  determined  him  to  stand  by  his  old  principal  as  far  as 
he  could,  consistently  with  his  own  safety. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  General?"  he  said. 

414 


SEVENOAKS.  4*5 

"  Get  me  out  of  the  city.  Get  me  off  to  Europe.  You 
know  I  have  funds  there." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  General." 

"You're  a  jewel,  Toll." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Talbot,  "the  Crooked  Valley  corpo 
ration  held  its  annual  meeting  to-day.  You  are  out,  and  they 
'lave  a  new  deal." 

"  They'll  find  out  something  to-morrow,  Toll.  It  all  comes 
together." 

When  the  coup6  drove  up  at  Palgrave's  Folly,  and  the 
General  alighted,  he  found  one  of  his  brokers  on  the  steps, 
with  a  pale  face.  "  What's  the  matter?"  said  Mr.  Belcher. 

"The  devil's  to  pay." 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  he.  "  I  hope  you'll  get  it  all  out 
of  him.'1 

"  It's  too  late  for  joking,"  responded  the  man  seriously. 
"  We  want  to  see  you  at  once.  You've  been  over-reached 
in  this  matter  of  the  Air  Line,  and  you've  got  some  very  ugly 
accounts  to  settle." 

"I'll  be  down  to-morrow  early,"  said  the  General. 

"  We  want  to  see  you  to-night,"  said  the  broker. 

"Very  well,  come  here  at  nine  o'clock." 

Then  the  broker  went  away,  and  Mr.  Belcher  and  Mr. 
Talbot  went  in.  They  ascended  to  the  library,  and  there,  in 
a  few  minutes,  arranged  their  plans.  Mrs.  Belcher  was  not 
to  be  informed  of  them,  but  was  to  be  left  to  get  the  news 
of  her  husband's  overthrow  after  his  departure.  "Sarah's 
been  a  good  wife,  Toll,"  he  said,  "but  she  was  unequally 
yoked  with  an  unbeliever  and  hasn't  been  happy  for  a  good 
many  years.  I  hope  you'll  look  after  her  a  little,  Toll. 
Save  something  for  her,  if  you  can.  Of  course,  she'll  have  . 
to  leave  here,  and  it  won't  trouble  her  much." 

At  this  moment  the  merry  voices  of  his  children  came 
through  an  opening  door. 

The  General  gave  a  great  gulp  in  the  endeavor  to  swallow     v 
his  emotion.     After  all,  there  was   a  tender  spot    in  him. 


4i  <5  SEVENOAKS. 

"Toll,  shut  the  door;  I  can't  stand  that.  Poor  little  devils  1 
What's  going  to  become  of  them  ?" 

The  General  was  busy  with  his  packing.  In  half  an  hour 
his  arrangements  were  completed.  Then  Talbot  went  to  one 
of  the  front  rooms  of  the  house,  and,  looking  from  the 
window,  saw  a  man  talking  with  the  driver  of  his  coupe.  li 
was  an  officer.  Mr.  Belcher  peeped  through  the  curtain,  and 
knew  him.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  A  plan  of  escape  was 
immediately  made  and  executed.  There  was  a  covered  passage 
into  the  stable  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  through  thai 
both  the  proprietor  and  Talbot  made  their  way.  Now  that 
Phipps  had  left  him,  Mr.  Belcher  had  but  a  single  servant 
who  could  drive.  He  was  told  to  prepare  the  horses  at  once, 
and  to  make  himself  ready  for  service.  After  everything  was 
done,  but  the  opening  of  the  doors,  Talbot  went  back  through 
the  house,  and,  on  appearing  at  the  front  door  of  the  man 
sion,  was  met  by  the  officer,  who  inquired  for  Mr.  Belcher. 
Mr.  Talbot  let  him  in,  calling  for  a  servant  at  the  same  time, 
and  went  out  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Simultaneously  with  this  movement,  the  stable-doors  flew 
open,  and  the  horses  sprang  out  upon  the  street,  and  were 
half  a  mile  on  their  way  to  one  of  the  upper  ferries,  leading 
to  Jersey  City,  before  the  officer  could  get  an  answer  to  his 
yinquiries  for  Mr.  Belcher.  Mr.  Belcher  had  been  there  only 
five  minutes  before,  but  he  had  evidently  gone  out.  He 
would  certainly  be  back  to  dinner.  So  the  officer  waited  until 
convinced  that  his  bird  had  flown,  and  until  the  proprietoi 
was  across  the  river  in  search  of  a  comfortable  bed  among 
the  obscure  hotels  of  the  town. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Talbot  should  secure  a  state 
room  on  the  Aladdin  to  sail  on  the  following  day,  and  make 
an  arrangement  with  the  steward  to  admit  Mr.  Belcher  to  it 
on  his  arrival,  and  assist  in  keeping  him  from  sight. 

Mr.  Belcher  sent  back  his  carriage  by  the  uppermost  ferry, 
ate  a  wretched  dinner,  and  threw  himself  upon  his  bed,  where 
he  tossed  his  feverish  limbs  until  day-break.  It  was  a  nighr 


SEVENOAKS.  417 

thronged  with  nervous  fears.  He  knew  that  New  York  would 
resound  with  his  name  on  the  following  day.  Could  he 
reach  his  state-room  on  the  Aladdin  without  being  dis 
covered  ?  He  resolved  to  try  it  early  the  next  morning, 
though  he  knew  the  steamer  would  not  sail  until  noon.  Ac 
cordingly,  as  the  day  began  to  break,  he  rose  and  looked  out 
of  his  dingy  window.  The  milk-men  only  were  stirring.  At 
the  lower  end  of  the  street  he  could  see  masts,  and  the  pipes 
of  the  great  steamers,  and  a  ferry-boat  crossing  to  get  its 
first  batch  of  passengers  for  an  early  train.  Then  a  wretched 
man  walked  under  his  window,  looking  for  something, — 
hoping,  after  the  accidents  of  the  evening,  to  find  money  for 
his  breakfast.  Mr.  Belcher  dropped  him  a  dollar,  and  the 
man  looked  up  and  said  feebly  :  "  May  God  bless  you,  sir  !" 

This  little  benediction  was  received  gratefully.  It  would 
do  to  start  on.  He  felt  his  way  down  stairs,  called  for  his 
reckoning,  and  when,  after  an  uncomfortable  and  vexatious 
delay,  he  had  found  a  sleepy,  half-dressed  man  to  receive  his 
money,  he  went  out  upon  the  street,  satchel  in  hand,  and 
walked  rapidly  toward  the  slip  where  the  Aladdin  lay  asleep. 

Talbot's  money  had  done  its  work  well,  and  the  fugitive 
had  only  to  make  himself  known  to  the  officer  in  charge  to 
secure  an  immediate  entrance  into  the  state-room  that  had 
been  purchased  for  him.  He  shut  to  the  door  and  locked  it ; 
then  he  took  off  his  clothes  and  went  to  bed. 

Mr.  Belcher's  entrance  upon  the  vessel  had  been  observed 
by  a  policeman,  but,  though  it  was  an  unusual  occurrence,  the 
fact  that  he  was  received  showed  that  he  had  been  expected. 
As  the  policeman  was  soon  relieved  from  duty,  he  gave  the 
matter  no  farther  thought,  so  that  Mr.  Belcher  had  practically 
made  the  passage  from  his  library  to  his  state-room  unob* 
served. 

After  the  terrible  excitements  of  the  two  preceding  days, 
and  the  sleeplessness  of  the  night,  Mr.  Belcher  with  the  first 
sense  of  security  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber.  All  through  the 
morning  there  were  officers  on  the  vessel  who  knew  that  h« 


4i  8  SEVENOAKS. 

was  wanted,  but  his  state-room  had  been  engaged  for  an  in* 
valid  lady,  and  the  steward  assured  the  officers  that  she  was 
in  the  room,  and  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

The  first  consciousness  that  came  to  the  sleeper  was  with  the 
first  motion  of  the  vessel  as  she  pushed  out  from  her  dock. 
He  rose  and  dressed,  and  found  himself  exceedingly  hungry. 
There  was  nothing  to  do,  however,  but  to  wait.  The  steamer 
would  go  down  so  as  to  pass  the  bar  at  high  tide,  and  lay  to 
for  the  mails  and  the  latest  passengers,  to  be  brought  down 
the  bay  by  a  tug.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  step  from  his 
hiding  until  the  last  policeman  had  left  the  vessel,  with  the 
casting  off  of  its  tender,  and  so  sat  and  watched  from  the 
little  port-hole  which  illuminated  his  room  the  panorama  of 
the  Jersey  and  the  Staten  Island  shores. 

His  hard,  exciting  life  was  retiring.  He  was  leaving  his 
foul  reputation,  his  wife  and  children,  his  old  pursuits  and 
his  fondly  cherished  idol  behind  him.  He  was  leaving  dan 
ger  behind.  He  was  leaving  Sing  Sing  behind  !  He  had  all 
Europe,  with  plenty  of  money,  before  him.  His  spirits  began 
to  rise.  He  even  took  a  look  into  his  mirror,  to  be  a  witness 
of  his  own  triumph. 

At  four  o'clock,  after  the  steamer  had  lain  at  anchor  for 
two  or  three  hours,  the  tug  arrived,  and  as  his  was  the  leeward 
side  of  the  vessel,  she  unloaded  her  passengers  upon  the 
steamer  where  he  could  see  them.  There  were  no  faces  that 
he  knew,  and  he  was  relieved.  He  heard  a  great  deal  of 
tramping  about  the  decks,  and  through  the  cabin.  Once,  two 
men  came  into  the  little  passage  into  which  his  door  opened. 
He  heard  his  name  spoken,  and  the  whispered  assurance  that 
his  room  was  occupied  by  a  sick  woman  ;  and  then  they  went 
away. 

At  last,  the  orders  were  given  to  cast  off  the  tug.  He  saw 
the  anxious  looks  of  officers  as  they  slid  by  his  port-hole, 
and  then  he  realized  that  he  was  free. 

The  anchor  was  hoisted,  the  great  engine  lifted  itself  to  its 
mighty  task,  and  the  voyage  was  begun.  They  had  gone 


SEVENOAKS.  4<9 

down  a  mile,  perhaps,  when  Mr.  Belcher  came  out  of  his 
state-room.  Supptr  was  not  ready — would  not  be  ready  for 
an  hour.  He  took  a  hurried  survey  of  the  passengers,  non« 
of  whom  he  knew.  They  were  evidently  gentle-folk,  mostly 
from  inland  cities,  who  were  going  to  Europe  for  pleasure. 
He  was  glad  to  see  that  he  attracted  little  attention.  He  sat 
down  on  deck,  and  took  up  a  newspaper  which  a  passenger 
had  left  behind  him. 

The  case  of  "  Benedict  vs.  Belcher  "  absorbed  three  or  four 
columns,  besides  a  column  of  editorial  comment,  in  which 
the  General's  character  and  his  crime  were  painted  with  a  free 
hand  and  in  startling  colors.  Then,  in  the  financial  column, 
he  found  a  record  of  the  meeting  of  the  Crooked  Valley  Cor 
poration,  to  which  was  added  the  statement  that  suspicions 
were  abroad  that  the  retiring  President  had  been  guilty  of 
criminal  irregularities  in  connection  with  the  bonds  of  the  " 
Company — irregularities  which  would  immediately  become  a 
matter  of  official  investigation.  There  was  also  an  account 
of  his  operations  in  Muscogee  Air  Line,  and  a  rumor  that  he 
had  fled  from  the  city,  by  some  of  the  numerous  out-going 
lines  of  steamers,  and  that  steps  had  already  been  taken  to 
head  him  off  at  every  possible  point  of  landing  in  this  country 
and  Europe. 

This  last  rumor  was  not  calculated  to  increase  his  appetite, 
or  restore  his  self-complacency  and  self-assurance.  He  looked 
all  these  accounts  over  a  second  time,  in  a  cursory  way,  and 
was  about  to  fold  the  paper,  so  as  to  hide  or  destroy  it,  when 
his  eye  fell  upon  a  column  of  foreign  despatches.  He  had 
never  been  greatly  interested  in  this  department  of  his  news 
paper,  but  now  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Europe,  they  as 
sumed  a  new  significance ;  and,  beginning  at  the  top,  he  read 
them  through.  At  the  foot  of  the  column,  he  read  the 
words  :  ' '  Heavy  Failure  of  a  Banking  House  ; ' '  and  his  at 
tention  was  absorbed  at  once  by  the  item  which  followed : 

"  The  House  of  Tempin  Brothers,  of  Berlin,  has  gone 
down.  The  failure  is  said  to  be  utterly  disastrous,  even  the 


420  SEVENOAKS. 

special  deposits  in  the  hands  of  the  house  having  been  used. 
The  House  was  a  favorite  with  Americans,  and  the  failure 
will  inevitably  produce  great  distress  among  those  who  are 
traveling  for  pleasure.  The  house  is  said  to  have  no  assets, 
and  the  members  are  not  to  be  found." 

Mr.  Belcher's  "Anchor  to  windward"  had  snapped  its 
cable,  and  he  was  wildly  afloat,  with  ruin  behind  him,  and 
starvation  or  immediate  arrest  before.  With  curses  on  his 
white  lips,  and  with  a  trembling  hand,  he  cut  out  the  item, 
walked  to  his  state-room,  and  threw  the  record  of  his  crime 
*nd  shame  out  of  the  port-hole.  Then,  placing  the  little 
excerpt  in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  he  went  on  deck. 

There  sat  the  happy  'passengers,  wrapped  in  shawls,  watch 
ing  the  setting  sun,  thinking  of  the  friends  and  scenes  they 
had  left  behind  them,  and  dreaming  of  the  unknown  world 
that  lay  before.  Three  or  four  elderly  gentlemen  were 
gathered  in  a  group,  discussing  Mr.  Belcher  himself;  but 
none  of  them  knew  him.  He  had  no  part  in  the  world  of 
honor  and  of  innocence  in  which  all  these  lived.  He  was  an 
outlaw.  He  groaned  when  the  overwhelming  consciousness 
of  his  disgrace  came  upon  him — groaned  to  think  that  not 
one  of  all  the  pleasant  people  around  could  know  him 
without  shrinking  from  him  as  a  monster. 

He  was  looking  for  some  one.  A  sailor  engaged  in  service 
passed  near  him.  Stepping  to  his  side,  Mr.  Belcher  asked 
him  to  show  him  the  captain.  The  man  pointed  to  the 
bridge.  "There's  the  Cap'n,  sir — the  man  in  the  blue  coat 
and  brass  buttons."  Then  he  went  along. 

Mr.  Belcher  immediately  made  his  way  to  the  bridge.  He 
touched  his  hat  to  the  gruff  old  officer,  and  begged  his  pardon 
for  obtruding  himself  upon  him,  but  he  was  in  trouble,  and 
wanted  advice. 

"Very  well,  out  with  it:  what's  the  matter?"  said  the 
Captain. 

Mr.  Belcher  drew  out  the  little  item  he  had  saved,  and 
said:  "Captain,  I  have  seen  this  bit  of  news  for  the  firsl 


SEVENOAKS.  421 

time  since  I  started.  This  firm  held  all  the  money  I  have  in 
the  world.  Is  there  any  possible  way  for  me  to  get  back  to 
my  home  ?' ' 

"  I  don't  know  of  any,"  said  the  captain. 

" But  I  must  go  back." 

"You'll  have  to  swim  for  it,  then." 

Mr.  Belcher  was  just  turning  away  in  despair,  with  a 
thought  of  suicide  in  his  mind,  when  the  captain  said: 
"  There's  Pilot-boat  Number  10.  She's  coming  round  to  get 
some  papers.  Perhaps  I  can  get  you  aboard  of  her,  but  you 
are  rather  heavy  for  a  jump." 

The  wind  was  blowing  briskly  off  shore,  and  the  beautiful 
pilot-boat,  with  her  wonderful  spread  of  canvass,  was  cutting 
the  water  as  a  bird  cleaves  the  air.  She  had  been  beating 
toward  land,  but,  as  she  saw  the  steamer,  she  rounded  to, 
gave  way  before  the  wind,  worked  toward  the  steamer's  track 
on  the  windward  side,  and  would  soon  run  keel  to  keel  with 
her. 

"Fetch  your  traps,"  said  the  captain.  "I  can  get  you 
on  board,  if  you  are  in  time." 

Mr.  Belcher  ran  to  his  state-room,  seized  his  valise,  and 
was  soon  again  on  deck.  The  pilot-boat  was  within  ten  rods 
of  the  steamer,  curving  in  gracefully  toward  the  monster,  and 
running  like  a  race-horse.  The  Captain  had  a  bundle  of 
papers  in  his  hand.  He  held  them  while  Mr.  Belcher  went 
over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  down  the  ladder,  and  turned 
himself  for  his  jump.  There  was  peril  in  the  venture,  but 
desperation  had  strung  his  nerves.  The  captain  shouted,  and 
asked  the  bluff  fellows  on  the  little  craft  to  do  him  the  per 
sonal  favor  to  take  his  passenger  on  shore,  at  their  conven 
ience.  Then  a  sailor  tossed  them  the  valise,  and  the  captain 
tossed  them  the  papers.  Close  in  came  the  little  boat.  It 
was  almost  under  Mr.  Belcher.  "Jump!"  shouted  half  a 
dozen  voices  together,  and  the  heavy  man  lay  sprawling  upon 
the  deck  among  the  laughing  crew.  A  shout  and  a  clapping  of 
hands  was  heard  from  the  steamer,  "  Number  10  "  sheered  oflj 


42a  SEVENOAKS. 

and  continued  her  cruise,  and,  stunned  and  bruised,  the  Gen 
eral  crawled  into  the  little  cabin,  where  it  took  only  ten 
minutes  of  the  new  motion  to  make  him  so  sick  that  his 
hunger  departed,  and  he  was  glad  to  lie  where,  during  the 
week  that  he  tossed  about  in  the  cruise  for  in-coming  vessels, 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  die. 

One,  two,  three,  four  steamers  were  supplied  with  pilots, 
and  an  opportunity  was  given  him  on  each  occasion  to  go  into 
port,  but  he  would  wait.  He  had  told  the  story  of  his  ban 
kers,  given  a  fictitious  name  to  himself,  and  managed  to  win 
the  good  will  of  the  simple  men  around  him.  His  bottle  of 
brandy  and  his  box  of  cigars  were  at  their  service,  and  his 
dress  was  that  of  a  gentleman.  His  natural  drollery  took  on 
a  very  amusing  form  during  his  sickness,  and  the  men  found 
him  a  source  of  pleasure  rather  than  an  incumbrance. 

At  length  the  last  pilot  was  disposed  of,  and  "  Number 
10  "  made  for  home;  and  on  a  dark  midnight  she  ran  in 
among  the  shipping  above  the  Battery,  on  the  North  River, 
and  was  still. 

Mr.  Belcher  was  not  without  ready  money.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  carrying  a  considerable  sum,  and,  before  leaving 
Talbot,  he  had  drained  that  gentleman's  purse.  He  gave  a 
handsome  fee  to  the  men,  and,  taking  his  satchel  in  his  hand, 
went  on  shore.  He  was  weak  and  wretched  with  long  sea 
sickness  and  loss  of  sleep,  and  staggered  as  he  walked  along 
the  wharf  like  a  drunken  man.  He  tried  to  get  one  of  the 
men  to  go  with  him,  and  carry  his  burden,  but  each  wanted 
the  time  with  his  family,  and  declined  to  serve  him  at  any 
price.  So  he  followed  up  the  line  of  shipping  for  a  few  blocks^ 
went  by  the  dens  where  drunken  sailors  and  river-thieves 
were  carousing,  and  then  turned  up  Fulton  Street  toward 
Broadway.  He  knew  that  the  city  cars  ran  all  night,  but  he 
did  not  dare  to  enter  one  of  them.  Reaching  the  Astor,  he 
crossed  over,  and,  seeing  an  up-town  car  starting  off  without 
a  passenger,  he  stepped  upon  the  front  platform,  where  he 
deposited  his  satchel,  and  sat  down  upon  it.  People  came 


SEVENOAKS.  423 

into  the  car  and  stepped  off,  but  they  could  not  see  him.  He 
was  oppressed  with  drowsiness,  yet  he  was  painfully  wide 
awake. 

At  length  he  reached  the  vicinity  of  his  old  splendors. 
The  car  was  stopped,  and,  resuming  his  burden,  he  crossed 
over  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  stood  in  front  of  the  palace  which 
had  been  his  home.  It  was  dark  at  every  window.  Where 
were  his  wife  and  children?  Who  had  the  house  in  keeping? 
He  was  tired,  and  sat  down  on  the  curb-stone,  under  the  very 
window  where  Mr.  Balfour  was  at  that  moment  sleeping.  He 
put  his  dizzy  head  between  his  hands,  and  whimpered  like  a 
sick  boy.  "  Played  out !"  said  he ;  "  played  out  1" 

He  heard  a  measured  step  in  the  distance.  He  must  not 
be  seen  by  the  watch ;  so  he  rose  and  bent  his  steps  toward 
Mrs.  Dillingham's.  Opposite  to  her  house,  he  sat  down  upon 
the  curb-stone  again,  and  recalled  his  old  passion  for  her. 
The  thought  of  her  treachery  and  of  his  own  fatuitous  vanity — • 
the  reflection  that  he  had  been  so  blind  in  his  self-conceit  that 
she  had  led  him  to  his  ruin,  stung  him  to  the  quick.  He  saw 
a  stone  at  his  feet.  He  picked  it  up,  and,  taking  his  satchel 
in  one  hand,  went  half  across  the  street,  and  hurled  the  little 
missile  at  her  window.  He  heard  the  crash  of  glass  and  a 
shrill  scream,  and  then  walked  rapidly  off.  Then  he  heard  a 
watchman  running  from  a  distance ;  for  the  noise  was  peculiar, 
and  resounded  along  the  street.  The  watchman  met  him  and 
made  an  inquiry,  but  passed  on  without  suspecting  the  fugi 
tive's  connection  with  the  alarm. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  street,  he  quickened  his  pace, 
and  went  directly  to  Talbot's.  Then  he  rang  the  door-bell, 
once,  twice,  thrice.  Mr.  Talbot  put  his  head  out  of  the  win 
dow,  looked  down,  and,  in  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  dis 
covered  the  familiar  figure  of  his  old  principal.  "  I'll  come 
down,"  he  said,  "and  let  you  in." 

The  conference  was  a  long  one,  and  it  ended  in  both  going 
into  the  street,  and  making  their  way  to  Talbot's  stable,  two 
or  three  blocks  distant.  There  the  coachman  was  roused,  and 


424  SEVENOAKS. 

there  Talbot  gave  Mr.  Belcher  the  privilege  of  sleeping  until 
he  was  wanted. 

Mr.  Talbot  had  assured  Mr.  Belcher  that  he  would  not  be 
safe  in  his  house,  that  the  whole  town  was  alive  with  rumors 
about  him,  and  that  while  some  believed  he  had  escaped  and 
was  on  his  way  to  Europe,  others  felt  certain  that  he  had  not 
left  the  city. 

Mr.  Belcher  had  been  a  railroad  man,  and  Mr.  Talbot  was 
sure  that  the  railroad  men  would  help  him.  He  would  secure 
a  special  car  at  his  own  cost,  on  a  train  that  would  leave  on 
the  following  night.  He  would  see  that  the  train  should  stop 
before  crossing  Harlem  Bridge.  At  that  moment  the  General 
must  be  there.  Mr.  Talbot  would  send  him  up,  to  sit  in  his 
cab  until  the  train  should  stop,  and  then  to  take  the  last  car, 
which  should  be  locked  after  him ;  and  he  could  go  through 
in  it  without  observation. 

A  breakfast  was  smuggled  into  the  stable  early,  where  Mr. 
Belcher  lay  concealed,  of  which  he  ate  greedily.  Then  he 
was  locked  into  the  room,  where  he  slept  all  day.  At  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  a  cab  stood  in  the  stable,  ready  to 
issue  forth  on  the  opening  of  the  doors.  Mr.  Belcher  took 
his  seat  in  it,  in  the  darkness,  and  then  the  vehicle  was  rapidly 
driven  to  Harlem.  After  ten  minutes  of  waiting,  the  dazzling 
head-light  of  a  great  train,  crawling  out  of  the  city,  showed 
down  the  Avenue.  He  unlatched  the  door  of  his  cab,  took 
his  satchel  in  his  hand,  and,  as  the  last  car  on  the  train  came 
up  to  him,  he  leaped  out,  mounted  the  platform,  and  vanished 
in  the  car,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  "All  right  !  "  was 
shouted  from  the  rear;  the  conductor  swung  his  lantern, 
and  the  train  thundered  over  the  bridge  and  went  roaring  off 
into  the  night. 

The  General  had  escaped.  All  night  he  traveled  on,  and, 
some  time  during  the  forenoon,  his  car  was  shunted  from  the 
Trunk  line  upon  the  branch  that  led  toward  Sevenoaks.  It 
was  nearly  sunset  when  he  reached  the  terminus.  The  rail- 
«x>ad  sympathy  had  helped  and  shielded  him  thus  far,  but  the 


SEVENOAKS.  425 

railroad  ended  there,  and  its  sympathy  and  help  were  cut  off 
short  with  the  last  rail. 

Mr.  Belcher  sent  for  the  keeper  of  a  public  stable  whom  ha 
knew,  and  with  whom  he  had  always  been  in  sympathy, 
through  the  love  of  horse-flesh  which  they  entertained  in 
common.  As  he  had  no  personal  friendship  to  rely  on  in 
his  hour  of  need,  he  resorted  to  that  which  had  grown  up 
between  men  who  had  done  their  best  to  cheat  each  other  by 
systematic  lying  in  the  trading  of  horses. 

"  O'd  Man  Coates,"  for  that  was  the  name  by  which  the 
stable  keeper  was  known,  found  his  way  to  the  car  where  Mr. 
Belcher  still  remained  hidden.  The  two  men  met  as  old 
cronies,  and  Mr.  Belcher  said:  "  Coates,  I'm  in  trouble,  and 
arn  bound  for  Canada.  How  is  Old  Calamity?  " 

Now  in  all  old  and  well  regulated  stables  there  is  one  horse 
of  exceptional  renown  for  endurance.  "  Old  Calamity  "  was 
a  roan,  with  one  wicked  white  eye,  that  in  his  best  days  had 
done  a  hundred  miles  in  ten  hours.  A  great  deal  of  money 
Viad  been  won  and  lost  on  him,  first  and  last,  but  he  had 
grown  old,  and  had  degenerated  into  a  raw-boned,  tough 
beast,  that  was  resorted  to  in  great  emergencies,  and  relied 
upon  for  long  stretches  of  travel  that  involved  extraordinary 
hardship. 

"  Well,  he's  good  yet,"  replied  Old  Man  Coates. 

"  You  must  sell  him  to  me,  with  a  light  wagon,"  said  Mr. 
Belcher. 

"  I  could  make  more  money  by  telling  a  man  who  is  look- 
Ing  for  you  in  the  hotel  that  you  are  here,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  wicked  leer. 

"But  you  won't  do  it,"  responded  the  General.  "You 
jan't  turn  on  a  man  who  has  loved  the  same  horse  with  you, 
old  man  ;  you  know  you  can't." 

"Well,  I  can,  but  in  course  I  won't;"  and  the  stable- 
keeper  went  into  a  calculation  of  the  value  of  the  horse  and 
harness,  with  a  wagon  "  that  couldn't  be  broke  down." 

Old  Man  Coates  had  Belcher  at  a  disadvantage,  and,  of 


426  SEVENOAKS. 

course,  availed  himself  of  it,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  makino 
a  bargain  which  reduced  the  fugitive's  stock  of  ready  monej 
in  a  fearful  degree. 

At  half-past  nine,  that  night,  "Old  Calamity  "  was  driven 
down  to  the  side  of  the  car  by  Coates'  own  hands,  and  in  a 
moment  the  old  man  was  out  of  the  wagon  and  the  new 
owner  was  in  it.  The  horse,  the  moment  Mr.  Belcher  took 
the  reins,  had  a  telegraphic  communication  concerning  the 
kind  of  man  who  was  behind  him,  and  the  nature  of  the  task 
that  lay  before  him,  and  struck  off  up  the  road  toward  Seven- 
oaks  with  a  long,  swinging  trot  that  gave  the  driver  a  sense  ol 
being  lifted  at  every  stride. 

It  was  a  curious  incident  in  the  history  of  Mr.  Belcher's 
flight  to  Canada,  which  practically  began  when  he  leaped 
upon  the  deck  of  Pilot-Boat  Number  10,  that  he  desired  to 
see  every  spot  that  had  been  connected  with  his  previous  life. 
A  more  sensitive  man  would  have  shunned  the  scenes  which 
had  been  associated  with  his  prosperous  and  nominally  re 
spectable  career,  but  he  seemed  possessed  with  a  morbid 
desire  to  look  once  more  upon  the  localities  in  which  he  had 
moved  as  king. 

He  had  not  once  returned  to  Sevenoaks  since  he  left  the 
village  for  the  metropolis;  and  although  he  was  in  bittei 
haste,  with  men  near  him  in  pursuit,  he  was  determined  to 
take  the  longer  road  to  safety,  in  order  to  revisit  the  scene  of 
his  early  enterprise  and  his  first  successes.  He  knew  that  Old 
Calamity  would  take  him  to  Sevenoaks  in  two  hours,  and  that 
then  the  whole  village  would  be  in  its  first  nap.  The  road 
was  familiar,  and  the  night  not  too  dark.  Dogs  came  out 
from  farm-houses  as  he  rattled  by,  and  barked  furiously.  He 
found  a  cow  asleep  in  the  road,  and  came  near  being  upset  by 
her.  He  encountered  one  or  two  tramps,  who  tried  to  speak 
to  him,  but  he  flew  on  until  the  spires  of  the  little  town, 
where  he  had  once  held  the  supreme  life,  defined  them 
selves  against  the  sky,  far  up  the  river.  Here  he  brought  his 
horse  down  to  a  walk.  The  moment  he  was  still,  for  he  had 


SEVENOAKS.  427 

not  yet  reached  the  roar  of  the  falls,  he  became  conscious 
tnat  a  wagon  was  following  him  in  the  distance.  Old  Man 
Coates  had  not  only  sold  him  his  horse,  but  he  had  sold  his 
tecret ! 

Old  Calamity  was  once  more  put  into  a  trot,  and  in  ten 
minutes  he  was  by  the  side  of  his  mill.  Seeing  the  watchman 
in  front,  he  pulled  up,  and,  in  a  disguised  voice,  inquired  the 
way  to  the  hotel.  Having  received  a  rough  answer,  he  in 
quired  of  the  man  whose  mill  he  was  watching. 

"  I  don't  know,"  responded  the  man.  "It's  stopped 
now.  It  was  old  Belcher's  once,  but  he's  gone  up,  they  say." 

Mr.  Belcher  started  on.  He  crossed  the  bridge,  and  drove 
up  the  steep  hill  toward  his  mansion.  Arriving  at  the  hight, 
he  stood  still  by  the  side  of  the  Seven  Oaks,  which  had  once 
been  the  glory  of  his  country  home.  Looking  down  into  the 
town,  he  saw  lights  at  the  little  tavern,  and,  by  the  revelations 
of  the  lantern  that  came  to  the  door,  a  horse  and  wagon.  At 
this  moment,  his  great  Newfoundland  dog  came  bounding 
toward  him,  growling  like  a  lion.  He  had  alighted  to  stretch 
his  limbs,  and  examine  into  the  condition  of  his  horse.  The 
dog  came  toward  him  faster  and  faster,  and  more  and  more 
menacingly,  till  he  reached  him,  and  heard  his  own  name 
called.  Then  he  went  down  into  the  dust,  and  fawned  upon 
his  old  master  pitifully.  Mr.  Belcher  caressed  him.  There 
was  still  one  creature  living  that  recognized  him,  and  acknow 
ledged  him  as  his  lord.  He  looked  up  at  his  house  and  took 
a  final  survey  of  the  dim  outlines  of  the  village.  Then  he 
mounted  his  wagon,  turned  his  horse  around,  and  went  slowly 
down  the  hill,  calling  to  his  dog  to  follow.  The  huge  crea 
ture  followed  a  few  steps,  then  hesitated,  then,  almost  crawl 
ing,  he  turned  and  sneaked  away,  and  finally  broke  into  a 
run  and  went  back  to  the  house,  where  he  stopped  and  with 
9.  short,  gruff  bark  scouted  his  retiring  master. 

Mr.  Belcher  looked  back.  His  last  friend  had  left  him. 
"Blast  the  brute  1"  he  exclaimed.  "He  is  like  the  rest  of 


,- 


428  SEVENOAKS. 

As  he  came  down  the  road  to  turn  into  tne  main  highway, 
a  man  stepped  out  from  the  bushes  and  seized  Old  Calamity 
by  the  bridle.  Mr.  Belcher  struck  his  horse  a  heavy  blow, 
and  the  angry  beast,  by  a  single  leap,  not  only  shook  himself 
clear  of  the  grasp  upon  his  bit,  but  hurled  the  intercepting 
figure  upon  the  ground.  A  second  man  stood  ready  to  deal 
with  Mr.  Belcher,  but  the  latter  in  passing  gave  him  a  furious 
cut  with  his  whip,  and  Old  Calamity  was,  in  twenty  seconds, 
as  many  rods  away  from  both  of  them,  sweeping  up  the  long 
hill  at  a  trot  that  none  but  iron  sinews  could  long  sustain. 

The  huge  pile  that  constituted  the  Sevenoaks  poor-house 
was  left  upon  his  right,  and  in  ha'f  an  hour  he  began  a  long 
descent,  which  so  far  relieved  his  laboring  horse,  that  when 
he  reached  the  level  he  could  hardly  hold  him.  The  old  fire 
of  the  brute  was  burning  at  its  hottest.  Mr.  Belcher  pulled 
him  in,  to  listen  for  the  pursuit.  Half  a  mile  behind,  he 
could  hear  wheels  tearing  madly  down  the  hill,  and  he 
laughed.  The  race  had,  for  the  time,  banished  from  his  mind 
the  history  of  the  previous  week,  banished  the  memory  of  his 
horrible  losses,  banished  his  sense  of  danger,  banished  his 
nervous  fears.  It  was  a  stern  chase,  proverbially  a  long  one, 
and  he  had  the  best  horse,  and  knew  that  he  could  not  be 
overtaken.  The  sound  of  the  pursuing  wheels  grew  fainter 
and  fainter,  until  they  ceased  altogether. 

Just  as  the  day  was  breaking,  he  turned  from  the  main 
road  into  the  woods,  and  as  the  occupants  of  a  cabin  were 
rising,  he  drove  up  and  asked  for  shelter  and  a  breakfast. 

He  remained  there  all  day,  and,  just  before  night,  passed 
through  the  forest  to  another  road,  and  in  the  early  morning 
was  driving  quietly  along  a  Canadian  highway,  surveying  his 
"adopted  country,"  and  assuming  the  character  of  a  loya? 
lubject  of  the  good  Queen  of  England. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

WHICH   GIVES  THE  HISTORY   OF  AN  ANNIVERSARY,   PRESENTS  A 
TABLEAU,   AND   DROPS  THE  CURTAIN. 

THREE  months  after  Mr.  Belcher's  escape,  the  great  world 
hardly  remembered  that  such  a  man  as  he  had  ever  lived. 
Other  rascals  took  his  place,  and  absorbed  the  public  atten 
tion,  having  failed  to  learn — what  even  their  betters  were 
slow   to  apprehend — that  every  strong,  active,  bad   man  is  : 
systematically  engaged  in  creating  and  shaping  the  instru-  | 
ments  for  his  own  destruction.     Men  continued  to  be  dazzled 
by  their  own  success,  until  they  could  see  neither  the  truth 
and  right  that  lay  along  their  way,  nor  the  tragic  end  that 
awaited  them. 

The  execution  in  satisfaction  of  the  judgment  obtained 
against  Mr.  Belcher  was  promptly  issued  and  levied ;  claimants 
and  creditors  of  various  sorts  took  all  that  the  execution  left  j 
Mrs.  Belcher  and  her  children  went  to  their  friends  in  the 
country ;  the  Sevenoaks  property  was  bought  for  Mr.  Bene 
dict,  and  a  thousand  lives  were  adjusted  to  the  new  circum 
stances  ;  but  narrative  palls  when  its  details  are  anticipated. 
Let  us  pass  them,  regarding  them  simply  as  memories  coming 
7ap — sometimes  faintly,  sometimes  freshly — from  the  swiftly 
retiring  years,  and  close  the  book,  as  we  began  it,  with  a  • 
picture. 

Sevenoaks  looks,  in  its  main  features,  as  it  looked  when  the 
reader  first  saw  it.  The  river  rolls  through  it  with  the  old 
song  that  the  dwellers  upon  its  banks  have  heard  through  aU 
these  changing  years.  The  workmen  and  workwomen  come 

429 


430  SEVENOAKS. 

and  go  in  the  mill,  in  their  daily  round  of  Amy,  as  they  did 
when  Phipps,  and  the  gray  trotters,  and  the  great  proprietor 
were  daily  visions  of  the  streets.  The  little  tailoress  returns 
twice  a  year  with  her  thrifty  husband,  to  revisit  her  old 
friends ;  and  she  brings  at  last  a  little  one,  which  she  shows 
with  great  pride.  Sevenoaks  has  become  a  summer  tho 
roughfare  to  the  woods,  where  Jim  receives  the  city-folk  in 
incredible  numbers. 

We  look  in  upon  the  village  on  a  certain  summer  evening, 
at  five  years'  remove  from  the  first  occupation  of  the  Belcher 
mansion  by  Mr.  Benedict.  The  mist  above  the  falls  cools  the 
air  and  bathes  the  trees  as  it  did  when  Robert  Belcher  looked 
upon  it  as  the  incense  which  rose  to  his  lordly  enterprise. 
The  nestling  cottages,  the  busy  shops,  the  fresh-looking  spires, 
the  distant  woods,  the  more  distant  mountain,  the  old  Seven 
Oaks  upon  the  Western  plateau  and  the  beautiful  residence 
behind  them,  are  the  same  to-day  that  they  were  when  we 
first  looked  upon  them ;  but  a  new  life  and  a  new  influence 
inform  them  all.  Nature  holds  her  unvarying  frame,  but  the 
life  upon  the  canvas  is  what  we  paint  from  year  to  year.  The 
river  sings  to  vice  as  it  sings  to  virtue.  The  birds  carol 
the  same,  whether  selfishness  or  love  be  listening.  The 
great  mountains  rejoice  in  the  sun,  or  drape  their  brows  in 
clouds,  irrespective  of  the  eyes  that  regard  them. 

This  one  fact  remains  good  in  Sevenoaks,  and  the  world 
over.  The  man  who  holds  the  financial  power  and  the  soda) 
throne  of  a  town,  makes  that  town,  in  a  good  degree,  what 
he  is.  If  he  is  virtuous,  noble,  unselfish,  good,  the  elements 
beneath  him  shape  themselves,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
to  his  character.  Vice  shrinks  into  disgrace,  or  flies  to  more 
congenial  haunts.  The  greed  for  gold  which  grasps  and 
over-reaches,  becomes  ashamed,  or  changes  to  neighborly 
helpfulness.  The  discontent  that  springs  up  in  the  shadow 
of  an  unprincipled  and  boastful  worldly  success,  dies;  and 
men  become  happy  in  the  toil  that  wins  a  comfortable  shelter 
and  daily  bread,  when  he  to  whom  all  look  up,  looks  down 


SEVEN  OAKS.  431 

upon  them  with  friendly  and  sympathetic  eyes,  and  holds  his 
wealth  and  power  in  service  of  their  good. 

Paul  Benedict  is  now  the  proprietor  of  Sevenoaks;  and 
from  the  happy  day  in  which  he,  with  his  sister  and  child, 
came  to  the  occupation  of  the  mansion  which  his  old  persecutor 
had  built  for  himself,  the  fortunes  and  character  of  the  town  ' 
have  mended.  Even  the  poor-house  has  grown  more  com 
fortable  in  its  apartments  and  administration,  while  year  by 
year  its  population  has  decreased.  Through  these  first  years, 
the  quiet  man  has  moved  around  his  mill  and  his  garden,  his 
mind  teeming  with  suggestions,  and  filling  with  new  interest  in 
their  work  the  dull  brains  that  had  been  worn  deep  and  dry 
with  routine.  All  eyes  turn  upon  him  with  affection.  He  is  v 
their  brother  as  well  as  their  master. 

In  the  great  house,  there  is  a  happy  woman.  She  has  found 
something  to  love  and  something  to  do.  These  were  all  she 
needed  to  make  her  supremely  self-respectful,  happy,  and,  in 
the  best  degree,  womanly.  Willful,  ambitious,  sacrificing  her 
young  affections  to  gold  at  the  first,  and  wasting  years  in  - 
idleness  and  unworthy  intrigue,  for  the  lack  of  affection  and 
the  absence  of  motive  to  usefulness  and  industry,  she  has 
found,  at  last,  the  secret  of  her  woman's  life,  and  has  ac 
cepted  it  with  genuine  gratitude.  In  ministering  to  her  bro 
ther  and  her  brother's  child,  now  a  stalwart  lad,  in  watching 
with  untiring  eyes  and  helping  with  ready  wit  the  unused 
proprietor  in  his  new  circumstances,  and  in  assisting  the  poor 
around  her,  she  finds  her  days  full  of  toil  and  significance, 
and  her  nights  brief  with  grateful  sleep.  She  is  the  great 
lady  of  the  village,  holding  high  consideration  from  her  rela 
tionship  to  the  proprietor,  and  bestowing  importance  upon 
him  by  her  revelation  of  his  origin  and  his  city  associations. 

The  special  summer  evening  to  which  we  allude  is  one 
which  has  long  been  looked  forward  to  by  all  the  people  in 
whom  our  story  has  made  the  reader  sympathetically  in 
terested.  It  is  an  anniversary — the  fifth  since  the  new  family 
took  up  their  residence  in  the  grand  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs, 


432  SEVEN  OAKS. 

Balfour  with  their  boy  are  there.  Sam  Yates  is  there — now 
the  agent  of  the  mill — a  trusty,  prosperous  man ;  and  by  a 
process  of  which  we  have  had  no  opportunity  to  note  the  de 
tails,  he  has  transformed  Miss  Snow  into  Mrs.  Yates.  The 
matter  was  concluded  some  years  ago,  and  they  seem  quite 
wonted  to  each  other.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Snow,  grown  thinner 
and  grayer,  and  a  great  deal  happier,  is  there  with  his  wife 
and  his  two  unmarried  daughters.  He  finds  it  easier  to  "  take 
things  as  they  air,"  than  formerly,  and,  by  his  old  bridge, 
holds  them  against  all  comers.  And  who  is  this,  and  who  are 
these  ?  Jim  Fenton,  very  much  smoothed  exteriorly,  but 
jolly,  acute,  outspoken,  peculiar  as  ever.  He  walks  around 
the  garden  with  a  boy  on  his  shoulder.  The  "  little  feller  " 
that  originally  appeared  in  Mr.  Benedict's  plans  of  the  new 
hotel  is  now  in  his  hands — veritable  flesh  and  blood ;  and 
"the  little  woman,"  sitting  with  Mrs.  Snow,  while  Mrs.  Dil- 
lingham  directs  the  arrangement  of  the  banquet  that  is  being 
spread  in  the  pagoda,  watches  the  pair,  and  exclaims:  "Look 
at  them!  now  isn't  it  ridiculous?  " 

The  warm  sun  hides  himself  behind  the  western  hill, 
though  still  an  hour  above  his  setting.  The  roar  of  the  falling 
river  rises  to  their  ears,  the  sound  of  the  factory  bell  echoes 
among  the  hills,  and  the  crowd  of  grimy  workmen  and  work 
women  pours  forth,  darkening  the  one  street  that  leads  from 
the  mill,  and  dissipating  itself  among  the  waiting  cottages. 
All  is  tranquillity  and  beauty,  while  the  party  gather  to 
their  out-door  feast. 

it  is  hardly  a  merry  company,  though  a  very  happy  one. 
It  is  the  latest  issue  of  a  tragedy  in  which  all  have  borne  more 
or  less  important  parts.  The  most  thoughtless  of  them  can- 
iiot  but  feel  that  a  more  powerful  hand  than  their  own  has 
shaped  their  lives  and  determined  their  destinies. 

The  boys  are  called  in,  and  the  company  gather  to  their 
banquet,  amid  conversation  and  laughter. 

Mr.  Balfour  turns  to  Jim  and  says  :  "  How  does  this  compare 
with  Number  N^ne,  Jim?  Isn't  this  better  than  the  woods?" 


SEVENOAKS.  433 

Jim  has  been  surveying  the  preparations  with  a  critical  and 
professional  eye,  for  professional  purposes.  The  hotel-keeper 
keeps  himself  constantly  open  to  suggestions,  and  the  table 
before  him  suggests  so  much,  that  his  own  establishment  seems 
very  humble  and  imperfect. 

"  I  ben  thinkin*  about  it,''  Jim  responds.  "  When  a  man 
has  got  all  he  wants,  he's  brung  up  standin'  at  the  end  of  his 
road.  If  thar  ain't  comfort  then,  then  there  ain't  no  comfort. 
When  he's  got  more  nor  he  wants,  then  he's  got  by  comfort, 
and  runnin'  away  from  it.  A  hearn  the  women  talk  about 
churnin'  by,  so  that  the  butter  never  comes,  an'  a  man  as 
has  more  money  nor  he  wants  churns  by  his  comfort,  an' 
spends  his  life  swashin'  with  his  dasher,  and  wonderin'  where 
his  butter  is.  Old  Belcher's  butter  never  come,  but  he  worked 
away  till  his  churn  blowed  up,  an'  he  went  up  with  it." 

"  So  you  think  our  good  friend  Mr.  Benedict  has  got  so 
much  that  he  has  left  comfort  behind,"  says  Mr.  Balfour  with 
a  laugh. 

.  "  I  should  be  afeard  he  had,  if  he  could  reelize  it  was  all 
his'n,  but  he  can't.  He  hain't  got  no  more  comfort  here,  no 
ivay,  nor  he  used  to  have  in  the  woods."  Then  Jim  leans 
over  to  Mr.  Balfour's  ear,  and  says:  "  It's  the  woman  as  does 
it.  It's  purty  to  look  at,  but  it's  too  pertickler  for  comfort." 

Mr.  Balfour  sees  that  he  and  Jim  are  observed,  and  so  speaks 
louder.  "There  is  one  thing,"  he  says:  "that  I  have 
learned  in  the  course  of  this  business.  It  does  not  lie  very 
deep,  but  it  is  at  least  worth  speaking  of.  I  have  learned  how 
infinitely  more  interesting  and  picturesque  vulgar  poverty  is 
than  vulgar  riches.  One  can  find  more  poetry  in  a  log  cabin 
than  in  all  that  wealth  ever  crowded  into  Palgrave's  Folly. 
If  poor  men  and  poor  women,  honest  and  patient  workers, 
could  only  apprehend  the  poetical  aspects  of  their  own  lives 
and  conditions,  instead  of  imagining  that  wealth  holds  a 
monopoly  of  the  poetry  of  life,  they  would  see  that  they  have 
the  best  of  it,  and  are  really  enviable  people." 

Jim  knows,  of  course,  that  his  old  cabin  in  the  woods  is  in 

19 


434  SEVEN  OAKS. 

Mr.  Balfour's  mind,  and  feels  himself  called  upon  to  say 
something  in  response.  "If  so  be  as  ye're  'ludin'  at  me," 
says  he,  "I'm  much  obleeged  to  ye,  but  I  perfer  a  hotel  to  a 
log  cabin,  pertickler  with  a  little  woman  and  a  little  feller  in 
it,  Paul  B.,  byname." 

"  That's  all  right,  Jim,"  says  Mr.  Balfour,  "  but  I  don't 
call  that  vulgar  wealth  which  is  won  slowly,  by  honest  in 
dustry.  A  man  who  has  more  money  than  he  has  brains,  and 
makes  his  surroundings  the  advertisement  of  his  possessions, 
rather  than  the  expression  of  his  culture,  is  a  vulgar  man,  or 
a  man  of  vulgar  wealth." 

"Did  ye  ever  think,"  says  Jim,  "that  riches  rots  or  keeps 
accordin'  to  their  natur? — rots  or  keeps,"  he  goes  on,  "ac- 
cordin'  to  what  goes  into  'em  when  a  man  is  gitten*  'em 
together?  Blood  isn't  a  purty  thing  to  mix  with  money,  an* 
I  perfer  mine  dry.  A  golden  sweetin'  grows  quick  an*  makes 
a  big  show,  but  ye  can't  keep  it  through  the  winter." 

"That's  true,  Jim,"  responds  Mr.  Balfour.  "Wealth  takes, 
into  itself  the  qualities  by  which  it  is  won.  Gathered  by 
crime  or  fraud,  and  gathered  in  haste,  it  becomes  a  curse  to 
those  who  hold  it,  and  falls  into  ruin  by  its  own  corruptions. 
Acquired  by  honest  toil,  manly  frugality,  patient  endurance, 
and  patient  waiting,  it  is  full  of  good,  and  holds  together  by 
a  force  within  itself." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Belcher  !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Dillingham,  as  the 
reflection  comes  to  her  that  that  amiable  lady  was  once  the 
mistress  of  the  beautiful  establishment  over  which  she  has 
been  called  upon  to  preside. 

1  "  They  say  she  is  living  nicely,"  says  Mr.  Snow,  "and 
that  somebody  sends  her  money,  though  she  does  not  know 
where  it  comes  from.  It  is  supposed  that  her  husband  saved 
something,  and  keeps  himself  out  of  sight,  while  he  looks 
after  his  family." 

Mr.  Benedict  and  Mrs.  Dillingham  exchange  significant 
glances.  Jim  is  a  witness  of  the  act,  and  knows  what  ic 
means.  He  leans  over  to  Mr.  Benedict,  and  says;  "When 


SEVENOAKS.  435 

,t  seen  sheet-lightnin',  I  know  there's  a  shower  where  it  comes 
from.     Ye  can't  fool  me  about  ma'am  Belcher's  money." 

"You  will  not  tell  anybody,  Jim,"  says  Mr.  Benedict,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  Nobody  but  the  little  woman,"  responds  Jim  ;  and  then, 
seeing  that  his  "little  feller,"  in  the  distance,  is  draining 
a  cup  with  more  than  becoming  leisure,  he  shouts  down  the 
table:  "  Paul  B !  PaulB!  Ye  can't  git  that  mug  on  to  yer 
head  with  the  brim  in  yer  mouth.  It  isn't  yer  size,  an'  it 
doesn't  look  purty  on  ye." 

"I  should  like  to  know  where  the  old  rascal  is,"  says  Mrs. 
Snow,  going  back  to  the  suggestion  that  Mr.  Belcher  was 
supplying  his  family  with  money. 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  ye,"  replies  Jim.  "I've  been  a  keepin' 
it  in  for  this  very  meetin'." 

"Oh  Jim!"  exclaim  half  a  dozen  voices,  which  means: 
"we  are  dying  to  hear  all  about  it." 

"Well,"  says  Jim,  "there  was  a  feller  as  come  to  my 
hotel  a  month  ago,  and  says  he :  '  Jim,  did  ye  ever  know 
what  had  become  of  old  Belcher?'  *  No, 'says  I,  'I  only 
knowed  he  cut  a  big  stick,  an'  slid.'  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  I  seen 
'im  a  month  ago,  with  whiskers  enough  on  'is  ugly  face  to  set 
up  a  barberry-bush.'  Says  I,  'Where  did  ye  seen  'im?' 
*  Where  do  ye  guess',  says  he?'  '  Swoppin'  a  blind  hoss', 
says  I,  'fur  a  decent  one,  an'  gettin'  boot.'  'No,'  says  he, 
'guess  agin.'  '  Preachin'  at  a  camp-meetin',' says  I,  'an1 
passin'  round  a  hat  arter  it.'  'No,'  says  he,  'I  seen  'im 
jest  where  he  belonged.  He  was  tendin'  a  little  bar,  on  a 
S'n'  Lor' nee  steamboat.  He  was  settin'  on  a  big  stool  in 
the  middle  of  'is  bottles,  where  he  could  reach  'em  all  without 
droppin'  from  his  roost,  an'  when  his  customers  was  out  he 
was  a  peekin'  into  a  little  lookin' -glass,  as  stood  aside  of  'im, 
an*  a  combin'  out  his  baird.'  'That  settles  it,'  says  I,  '  you've 
seen 'im,  an  no  mistake.'  'Then,'  says  he,  'I  called  'im 
'  General,'  an'  he  looked  kind  a  skeered,  an'  says  'e  to  me, 
'  Mum's  the  word  !  Crooked  Valley  an'  Air  Line  is  played 


436  SEVEN  OAKS. 

out,  an*  I'm  workin'  up  a  corner  in  Salt  River/ — laughin', 
an*  offerin'  to  treat.' 

"I  wonder  how  he  came  in  such  a  place  as  that,"  says 
Mrs.  Snow. 

"That's  the  funniest  part  on't,"  responds  Jim.  "He 
found  an  old  friend  on  the  boat,  as  was  much  of  a  gentleman, 
— an  old  friend  as  was  dressed  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  an' 
sold  the  tickets." 

"Phipps!"  "Phipps!"  shout  half  a  dozen  voices,  and 
a  boisterous  laugh  goes  around  the  group. 

"Ye've  guessed  right  the  fust  time,"  Jim  continues,  "an' 
the  gentlemanlest  clerk,  an*  the  poplarest  man  as  ever  writ 
names  in  a  book,  an'  made  change  on  a  counter,  with  no 
end  o*  rings  an'  hankercher-pins,  an'  presents  of  silver  mugs, 
an*  rampin'  resolootions  of  admirin'  passingers.  An'  there 
the  two  fellers  be,  a  sailin'  up  an'  down  the  S'n.'  Lor'nce, 
as  happy  as  two  clams  in  high  water,  workin'  up  corners  in 
their  wages,  an'  playin'  into  one  another's  hands  like  a  pair 
of  pickpockets  ;  and  what  do  ye  think  old  Belcher  said  about 
Phipps?" 

"What  did  he  say?"  comes  from  every  side. 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  percisely,"  responds  Jim.  "Fust  he 
said  it  was  proverdential,  as  Phipps  run  away  when  he  did ; 
an'  then  he  put  in  somethin'  that  sounded  as  if  it  come  from 
a  book, — somethin'  about  tunin'  the  wind  to  the  sheared 
ram." 

Jim  is  very  doubtful  about  his  quotation,  and  actually 
blushes  scarlet  under  the  fire  of  laughter  that  greets  him 
from  every  quarter. 

"I'm  glad  if  it  'muses  ye,"  says  Jim,  "but  it  wasn't  any- 
thing  better  nor  that,  considerin'  the  man  as  took  it  to  him 
self." 

"Jim,  you'll  be  obliged  to  read  up,"  says  "the  little 
woman,"  who  still  stands  by  her  early  resolutions  to  take  her 
husband  for  what  he  is,  and  enjoy  his  peculiarities  with  he/ 
neighbors. 


SEVENOAKS.  437 

"I  be  as  I  be,"  he  responds.  "I  can  keep  a  hotel,  an* 
make  money  on  it,  an*  pervide  for  my  own,  but  when  it 
comes  to  books  ye  can  trip  me  with  a  feather." 

The  little  banquet  draws  to  a  close,  and  now  two  or  three 
inquire  together  for  Mr.  Yates.  He  has  mysteriously  dis 
appeared  !  The  children  have  already  left  the  table,  and 
Paul  B.  is  romping  with  a  great  show  of  equine  spirit  about 
the  garden  paths,  astride  ot  a  stick,  Tim  is  looking  at  him  in 
undisguised  admiration.  "I  do  believe,  he  exclaims, 
"  that  the  little  feller  thinks  he's  a  hoss,  with  a  necK  luor? 
nor  three  feet  long.  See  'im  bend  it  over  agin  the  check- 
rein  he's  got  in  his  mind  I  Hear  'im  squeal !  Now  look  out 
for  his  heels!" 

At  this  moment,  there  rises  upon  the  still  evening  air  a 
confused  murmur  ot  many  voices.  All  but  the  children  pause 
and  listen.  "What  is  coming?"  "Who  is  coming  f" 
"What  is  it?"  break  from  the  lips  of  tne  listeners.  Only 
Mrs.  Yates  looks  intelligent,  and  she  holds  her  tongue,  and 
keeps  her  seat.  The  sound  comes  nearer,  and  breaks  into 
greater  confusion.  It  is  laughter,  and  merry  conversation, 
and  the  jar  of  tramping  feet.  Mr.  Benedict  suspects  what  it 
is,  and  goes  off  among  his  vines,  in  a  state  of  painful  uncon 
cern  !  The  boys  run  out  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  come  back 
in  great  excitement,  to  announce  that  the  whole  town  is 
thronging  up  toward  the  house.  Then  all,  as  if  apprehending 
the  nature  of  the  visit,  gather  about  their  table  again,  that 
being  the  place  where  their  visitors  will  expect  to  find  them. 

At  length,  Sam.  Yates  comes  in  sight,  around  the  corner 
of  the  mansion,  followed  closely  by  all  the  operatives  of  the 
mill,  dressed  in  their  holiday  attire.  Mrs.  Dillingham  has 
found  her  brother,  and  with  her  hand  upon  his  arm  she  goes 
out  to  meet  his  visitors.  They  have  come  to  crown  the  feast, 
and  signalize  the  anniversary,  by  bringing  their  congratula 
tions  to  the  proprietor,  and  the  beautiful  lady  who  presides 
over  his  house.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  awkwardness  among 
the  young  men,  and  tittering  and  blushing  among  the  young 


SEVENOAKS. 

women,  with  side  play  of  jest  and  coquetry,  as  they  iorra 
themselves  in  a  line,  preparatory  to  something  formal,  which 
presently  appears. 

Mr.  Yates,  the  agent  of  the  mill,  who  has  consented  to  be 
the  spokesman  of  the  occasion,  stands  in  front,  and  faces  Mr. 
Benedict  and  Mrs.  Dillingham. 

"Mr.  Benedict,"  says  he,  "this  demonstration  in  your 
honor  is  not  one  originated  by  myself,  but,  in  some  way,  these 
good  people  who  serve  you  learned  that  you  were  to  have  a 
formal  celebration  of  this  anniversary,  and  they  have  asked 
•me  to  assist  them  in  expressing  the  honor  in  which  they  hold 
you,  and  the  sympathy  with  which  they  enter  into  your  re- 
joicing.  We  all  know  your  history.  Many  of  those  who 
now  stand  before  you,  remember  your  wrongs  and  your  mis 
fortunes;  and  there  is  not  one  who  does  not  rejoice  that  you 
have  received  that  which  your  own  genius  won  in  the  hands 
of  another.  There  is  not  one  who  does  not  rejoice  that  the 
evil  influence  of  this  house  is  departed,  and  that  one  now 
occupies  it  who  thoroughly  respects  and  honors  the  manhood 
and  womanhood  that  labor  in  his  service.  We  are  glad  to 
acknowledge  you  as  our  master,  because  we  know  that  we  can 
regard  you  as  our  friend.  Your  predecessor  despised  poverty — 
even  the  poverty  into  which  he  was  born — and  forgot,  in  the 
first  moment  of  his  success,  that  he  had  ever  been  poor,  while 
your  own  bitter  experiences  have  made  you  brotherly.  On 
behalf  of  all  those  who  now  stand  before  you,  let  me  thank 
you  for  your  sympathy,  for  your  practical  efforts  to  give  us  a 
share  in  the  results  of  your  prosperity,  and  for  the  purifying 
influences  which  go  out  from  this  dwelling  into  all  our  humble 
homes.  We  give  you  our  congratulations  on  this  anniversary, 
and  hope  for  happy  returns  of  the  day,  until,  among  the 
inevitable  changes  of  the  future,  we  all  yield  our  places  to 
those  who  are  to  succeed  us." 

Mr.  Benedict's  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  He  does  not  turn, 
however,  to  Mr.  Balfour,  for  help.  The  consciousness  of 
power,  and,  more  than  this,  the  consciousness  of  universal 


SEVEN  OAKS.  439 

sympathy,  give  him  self-possession  and  the  power  of  expres 
sion. 

"  Mr.  Yates,"  says  Mr.  Benedict,  "  when  you  call  me  mas 
ter,  you  give  me  pain.  When  you  speak  of  me  as  your 
brother,  and  the  brother  of  all  those  whom  you  represent,  you 
pay  me  the  most  grateful  compliment  that  I  have  ever  re 
ceived.  <  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  regard  myself  as  anything 
but  the  creature  and  the  instrument  of  a  loving  Providence. 
It  is  by  no  power  of  my  own,  no  skill  of  my  own,  no  provi 
dence  of  my  own,  that  I  have  been  carried  through  the  start 
ling  changes  of  my  life.  The  power  that  has  placed  me 
where  I  am,  is  the  power  in  which,  during  all  my  years  of 
adversity,  I  firmly  trusted.  It  was  that  power  which  brought 
me  my  friends — friends  to  whose  good  will  and  efficient  ser 
vice  I  owe  my  wealth  and  my  ability  to  make  life  profitable 
and  pleasant  to  you.  Fully  believing  this,  I  can  in  no  way 
regard  myself  as  my  own,  or  indulge  in  pride  and  vain  glory. 
You  are  all  my  brothers  and  sisters,  and  the  dear  Father  of 
us  all  has  placed  the  power  in  my  hands  to  do  you  good.  In 
the  patient  and  persistent  execution  of  this  stewardship  lies 
the  duty  of  my  life.  I  thank  you  all  for  your  good  will.  I 
thank  you  all  for  this  opportunity  to  meet  you,  and  to  say  to 
you  the  words  which  have  for  five  years  been  in  my  heart, 
waiting  to  be  spoken.  Come  to  me  always  with  your  troubles. 
Tell  me  always  what  I  can  do  for  you,  to  make  your  way 
easier.  Help  me  to  make  this  village  a  prosperous,  virtuous 
and  happy  one — a  model  for  all  its  neighbors.  And  now  I 
wish  to  take  you  all  by  the  hand,  in  pledge  of  our  mutual 
friendship  and  of  our  devotion  to  each  other." 

Mr.  Benedict  steps  forward  with  Mrs.  Dillingham,  and  both 
shake  hands  with  Mr.  Yates.  One  after  another — some  shyly, 
some  confidently — the  operatives  come  up  and  repeat  the 
process,  until  all  have  pressed  the  proprietor's  hand,  and  have 
received  a  pleasant  greeting  and  a  cordial  word  from  his 
sister,  of  whom  the  girls  are  strangely  afraid.  There  is  a 
moment  of  awkward  delay,  as  they  start  on  their  homeward 


SEVENOAKS. 

way,  and  then  they  gather  in  a  group  upon  the  brow  of  fche 
hill,  and  the  evening  air  resounds  with  "  three  cheers  "  for 
Mr.  Benedict.  Th£  hum  of  voices  begins  again,  the  tn,mp 
of  a  hundred  feet  passes  down  the  hill,  and  our  little  party  are 
left  to  themselves. 

They  do  not  linger  long.  The  Snows  take  their  '.eaxfle. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yates  retire,  with  a  lingering  "  good-night/ 
but  the  Balfours  and  the  Fentons  are  guests  of  the  house. 
1'hey  go  in,  and  the  lamps  are  lighted,  while  the  "  little  fel- 
er — Paul  B.  by  name" — is  carried  on  his  happy  father's 
houlder  to  his  bed  up  stairs. 

Finally,  Jim  comes  down,  having  seen  his  pet  asleep,  and 
finds  the  company  talking  about  Talbot.  He  and  his  pretty, 
worldly  wife,  finding  themselves  somewhat  too  intimately  as 
sociated  with  the  bad  fame  of  Robert  Belcher,  had  retired 
to  a  country  seat  on  the  Hudson — a  nest  which  they  fea 
thered  well  with  the  profits  of  the  old  connection. 

And  now,  as  they  take  leave  of  each  other  for  the  night, 
und  shake  hands  in  token  of  their  good-will,  and  their  satis 
faction  with  the  pleasures  of  the  evening,  Jim  says:  "Mr. 
Benedict,  that  was  a  good  speech  o'  yourn.  It  struck  rae 
favorble  an'  s' prised  me  some  considable.  I'd  no  idee  ye 
could  spread  so  afore  folks.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  ye  waf 
right  about  Proverdence.  It  seems  kind  o*  queer  that  some 
body  or  somethin'  should  be  takin  keer  o'  you  an'  me,  but 
I  vow  I  don't  see  how  it's  all  ben  did,  if  so  be  as  nobody  nor 
nothin'  has  took  keer  o'  me,  an'  you  too.  It  seems  reasom 
ble  that  somethin's  ben  to  work  all  the  time  that  I  hain't  seed. 
The  trouble  with  me  is  that  I  can't  understand  how  a  bein'  as 
turns  out  worlds  as  if  they  was  nothin'  more  nor  snow-balls 
would  think  o'  stoppin'  to  pay  'tention  to  sech  a  feller  as  Jim 
Fenton." 

"  You  are  larger  than  a  sparrow,  Jim,"  says  Mr.  Benedict 
with  a  smile. 

"That's  so. " 

"  Larger  than  9.  hair." 


SEVENOAKS.  441 

Jim  puts  up  his  hand,  brushes  down  the  stiff  crop  that 
crowns  his  head,  and  responds  with  a  comical  smile,  "  I  don* 
know  'bout  that." 

Jim  pauses  as  if  about  to  make  some  further  remark,  thinks 
better  of  it,  and  then,  putting  his  big  arm  around  his  little 
wife,  leads  her  off,  up  stairs. 

The  lights  of  the  great  house  go  out  one  after  another,  the 
cataracts  sing  the  inmates  to  sleep,  the  summer  moon  witches 
with  the  mist,  the  great,  sweet  heaven  bends  over  the  dreaming 
town,  and  there  we  leave  our  friends  at  rest,  to  take  up  the 
burden  of  their  lives  again  upon  the  happy  morrow,  beyond 
our  feeble  following,  but  still  under  the  loving  eye  and 
guiding  hand  to  which  we  confidently  and  gratefully  commit 
them. 


THE  END, 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


MAR  9. 1  2QQQ 


12,000(11/95) 


^**££LLl^mm 


405464 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


